L Rogues Darkstalkers The Night Warriors
by Louis the Rogue
Summary: Pt 1. Those who would prey upon mankind's fears. Those who would call yourselves the Dark Ones. Come and challenge me. We will see who is Lord of the Night. Currently rated T for violence, language, disturbing images, and adult themes.
1. The Return of Demitri Maximoff

DARKSTALKERS: THE NIGHT WARRIORS

Chapter One: The Return of Demitri Maximoff

Fanfiction by Louis the Rogue

(Based on original story by Capcom Inc.)

It is written that Makai is the body of a god, and that all demonkin are the descendants of its' creator, the First Lifeform. It was through the void that this lifeform came into being, and this may explain why its' offspring have been unknowingly driving the Makai back toward a new oblivion for countless millennia.

The first "demon noble" in recorded history was Zeruru Aensland, the forefather of the same Aensland Family that rules Makai to this day. It stands to reason that there may have been a ruler before even the majestic Demon King, but if that is so, the truth of the matter is hidden in darkness for now.

However, the rule of the Aensland Family does not go without contest. It is absolute, not because no one dares to stand against it, but because all who try have tried in vain. The current patriarch, Belial Aensland, is known with good reason as the Strongest Man in Makai. Like his ancestors, he is also known as the Demon King.

If Belial Aensland is the Body of Makai, then the Brain of Makai would be Galnan Voshtal, and the Heart of Makai would be Jedah Dohma. Though there are technically ten noble families of Makai, the three figures mentioned above are elevated to the status of High Noble, and until replaced, their actions alone decide the true fate of Makai.

Their souls fused with evil ambition, it is still no wonder that the various noble families, and consequently their kin below them, struggle valiantly in fruitless wars to "conquer Makai" for eon upon eon, too narrow-minded to see that from a larger scope their goal is not only unlikely, but impossible. If Makai is a living being, it cannot live without a body, brain, or heart: the death of the High Nobles would surely be the death of Makai, and all the creatures within it.

This logic was accepted as fact until the unthinkable happened. Galnan Voshtal, the guardian of every secret ever whispered in the dark world, including that of a hidden "gate" to another world and endless power, died – not by the hand of his successor, but in a simple passing away. No sooner had his personal medics confirmed the time of death than word began to spread, and tensions to rise. Without any one of the necessary thirds needed to make Makai whole, what would become of it?

The lesser nobles did not wait for death quietly, and mutually agreed that a war would be fought amongst them to decide the next High Noble. Belial and Jedah were content to take an observational stance, their powers unchallenged. The War of the Gate was bloody indeed, and it has lasted for the last two hundred years.

* * *

High above the crimson sand of the land of Makai, amongst the endless periwinkle stormclouds in the sky above, an angular winged dragon with pitch black eyes and a hide that constantly shifted between the colors of the rainbow, loomed ominously with terrifying speed toward something only he could smell at such a height. The look in the eyes of Xell Kreutz was murderous, and his menacing fangs gritted with a cross between ultimate frustration and rage unbound, "My vengeance is imminent!"

That which the fabled Anarchic Wyrm sought already knew that he was being pursued, and as he waited silently atop the volcano known as Gilala Gila, Gregorio Hartland pondered what his ancestral rival would have to say upon his arrival.

Most prominently known as the Most Handsome Noble in Makai, it would be fair to say Lord Hartland's title was well deserved. He could assume any form he desired, and always chose the most stunning masculine specimen of a given race. Currently, his form was decidedly fair-featured, with ivory skin, straight hair of a raven black hue reaching his middle lower back, and blood red lips atop an angular black armor of a more Florentine design. His amber eyes danced with amusement as he watched a winged figure slowly come into view.

Xell narrowed his reptilian eyes into slits as the volcano came within sight. For only an hour, the Demon Key of Voshtal had been virtually in his talons! As soon as he learned that the Kreutz family had recovered it, he rushed to see it for himself, but already he was too late – it had been filched by a charismatic nobleman. To add insult to intrigue, it was none other than the man at the top of his unwritten blacklist.

A fire rose up out of the volcano in response to the draconic tyrant's arrival, enshrouding him momentarily in a thick black fog until a simple beat of his wings cleared the air between him and his perceived prey. "Give me the key and I will make your death a quick one", Xell hissed with his talons raised, the claws pointed down dramatically as if threatening to rain from the sky proceeding his vicious snout.

A confident smile stained the otherwise subtle face of Gregorio Hartland, "Of course Milord, but before we begin, I have learned something which will enlighten you even when I am dead. Granting me berth to speak would be most profitable, but if you are too impatient to be wise, I understand…"

Kreutz threw his head back in a roar, "How dare you question my wisdom! I am surpassed in battle only by Belial himself you arrogant playboy!"

Hartland closed his eyes, fighting a sudden eagerness to betray his ulterior motive, "Granted, you are a master of technique, but the information I now possess lies outside the realm of battle and is priceless nonetheless. I offer it freely; surely you cannot scoff at such an opportunity?"

Xell's scales rested for now on an emerald green as he slowly lowered out of the sky and perched himself on the volcano above his rival, leering down at the man impatiently, "Speak now or forever hold your tongue."

Hartland clapped his hands together with more amusement than before showing in his eyes, "Splendid! I found it hard to believe that one who calls himself a noble could be beyond the art of -"

"Waste not your charm on me boy", Kreutz glowered as he cut him off.

Hartland turned his back and gestured nonchalantly as he continued, "Like all the artifacts of Voshtal, the Demon Key is treasured not for power, but wisdom. I dare say I have uncovered the item's secret. Befitting a key, it opens a door, but a door most unusual, and that is why I have stopped, here, to end your pursuit. Can you guess the rest?"

Xell Kreutz chuckled menacingly, "So, at last I have the key to Human World, and with it the location of the gate. I must thank you, Hartland, it appears your wit is on par with my own after all. A pity only one of us can guard the secret."

Gregorio turned on a heel, the fire reflecting in his eyes as if to make them glow, "Hasty, Milord; think you that I brought the key all this way with no intent save to give it to you? As the door between realms is not firmly defined, the usage of the key is a matter more complex than inserting it into a knob, but in my infinite pursuit of The Key, I have unearthed this secret as well. Observe!"

In three blinks of an eye, the key was revealed, aimed, and thrown past the peripheral vision of Lord Kreutz, its' intricate golden design flashing with a pure white light as it reached the very top of the volcano and fell in.

The dragon raced above the volcano and stared open-mouthed down a sharp crevice as soon as he had time to react, "What have you done!" The antagonist did not answer; there was no need. This became apparent as the world around trembled violently, Gilala Gila itself threatening to rip apart as a blinding glow began to emit through the cracks.

Leaping from the volcano in a reflexive bound, Hartland watched from the top of a nearby mountain with curiosity as his rival looked on from above in horror at the scene unfolding. As the great black mountain began to melt away, the remnants began to spin around each other both horizontally and vertically around a globe-like blot so black it hurt the eyes to look into it. The thing, which must have been the gate, seemed to grow more and more, swallowing the debris as fast as it could be drawn from the outside.

"Now", Hartland smiled up at Kreutz, "Let the crescendo begin!"

* * *

Castle Zeltzereich. It's very name inspired terror in those wise enough to learn the lore of the Romanian countryside before passing through. It was a name synonymous with darkness, corruption, and death.

Indeed, the castle itself was an imposing sight to behold. Perched high atop a precariously steep plateau, the blackstone castle was more of a fortress tower with its' spear-like towerheads and high, square, impenetrable design. As if compelled to do so, a small flock of bats consistently flew about overhead.

To the unlucky villagers in the valley below, these fell creatures were ominous warnings to those foolish enough to venture inside. Of course, anyone that foolish listens not to warnings, and no one entering the castle had ever returned.

More imposing than the tomb that surrounded him, and far more terrifying than anything the villagers' superstitious imaginations could have conjured up, was the master of this castle. He was a fiend in the truest sense of the word, and this was only the tip of the iceberg concerning this Prince of Darkness.

Somewhere in the cloudy sky above, a red light appeared, parting through the clouds as if the sun that had not appeared within miles of this land for one hundred years was suddenly rising and swallowing up the gray.

Filtering through the crenulated battlements of the castle, the light cast a soft red glow over the room of the topmost tower, starkly contrasting everything in a mesh of lake red and pitch black. As the total darkness was disturbed around the solitary figure sitting on his spike-headed throne, an aura of fire rose up about his person and reflected in his empty eyes.

The figure was a tall, well-chiseled man of lean build with short brown hair that flared upward like a rising flame, and fair skin. He garbed himself in the attire of a nobleman; blue dress pants tucked into knee-high golden boots below a red dress shirt with a white neckerchief, over which hung a blue tailed jacket with gold cuffs from which hung a long silky cape of the blackest hue.

Though banished to a comparatively pitiful existence, he was the undisputed lord of all he surveyed. Demitri Maximoff rose from his throne, his aura yet about him as he strode to one of the small windows and peered outward, a distant smile coming over his face, "How long has it been, Belial? One hundred years…"

* * *

He was younger then, with everything to prove. Undoubtedly the strongest of the seven lesser nobles of Makai, he had gained respect even from the extremist Kreutz family after rivaling Baraba Kreutz, the Wolf Lord, in battle. But respect was not enough for the ambitious Maximoff; he would settle for no less than the title of High Noble, and accordingly challenged Belial Aensland for his title.

The battle would take place far above the mainland, in a circular airborne arena crafted of darkice, a substance tenfold harder than diamonds. There would be no spectators, as the ground was but a flat, smooth plane crafted for such occasions.

Belial had been calm in demeanor; nearly impassive as Demitri had remembered it, choosing to assume the form of a statuesque, hairless man with lavender skin and piercing red eyes garbed only in red breeches tucked into black boots and held up by an Arabic black sash.

The Demon King had taken a single look at the vampire standing so straight and laughed, goading Demitri into a rage as he dashed forward in a horizontal dash from his heel and brought his cape up in a pair of demonic black wings, spinning in mid-air like a missile drill; the technique was known as the Demon Cradle, a devastating move that he typically reserved for infidels unfortunate enough to arouse his anger.

Belial closed his eyes, his body beginning to glow from within with a violet light that was steadily increasing in brightness. By the time Demitri's misguided attack had reached him from across the ring, it was too late; the now potent field of dark force around Aensland exploded on contact with Demitri, sending the arrogant Lord Maximoff careening from the arena, unconscious, and tumbling to the ground below.

* * *

Demitri closed his eyes and turned away, the shadows swallowing up half his face, the other half highlighted by the red light, "Your power is undisputed by all, but for all your strength you lack judgment. Letting me have time to recover was a mistake you will not live to regret. I vow that, in time, even you Belial will beg for death on your knees before me."

His eyes opened as he looked back into the light resolutely, a bright crimson glow emitting from somewhere deep within, "But not yet. First, I must prove myself here. This 'Human World'… it is a chain I must shrug off before I am ready to ascend beyond and conquer the Makai. I see now that my goal is lofty, and certain prerequisites must be met in order to achieve it."

Raising a tensed hand to the sky, he summoned a flurry of golden, glowing bats forth through the window, their squeaking echoing into the distance as the flew off into the sky beyond. His eyes narrowed as he bared his fangs in a vicious smile, "Go now; deliver my message. Come out, those who would call themselves the Dark Ones. Come and fight. I will prove to you all that I am the Lord of the Night."


	2. Belial's Heir

DARKSTALKERS: THE NIGHT WARRIORS

Chapter Two: Belial's Heir

Fanfiction by Louis the Rogue

(Based on original story by Capcom Inc.)

It is a world both conterminous to ours, yet almost entirely parallel. The Makai has many names – Demon World, Hell, and The Realm of Evil among them. Regardless of where in the world you go, every culture has a concept of "order", "chaos", "good", or "evil". Makai is the embodiment of chaos and evil in the world of men.

At a location in Makai that exists within dimensions overshadowing the vast sky above what is known as the United Kingdom in the Earth year 1983, there stands a bizarre mesh of land and cloud, upon which sits a site yet more spectacular.

It was almost beyond description. The highest spire of this unimaginably colossal golden palace reached for the firmly defined boundary that cuts off the Makai from all other worlds; on Earth this boundary is less firm and referred to as the atmosphere. This boundary, a bright red, peeked around the clouds in many places, highlighting the castle in a surreal glow.

To insinuate that Castle Aensland is but a mammoth single domicile is erroneous. Within the walls existed entire nations of demon cities where the streets were literally paved in gold, and the buildings were built of other precious metals dependant on the particular fancy of a given nation. However, despite differences between the various demons, those differences were the only constant in a world that was so stagnant.

Surrounding the great tower mentioned above was the City of Spires, an achievement of epic proportions consisting of elaborate steeple-topped towers of a gold and silver hue that rose in a pattern that began at nine-hundred stories tall in the farthest outskirts of the city to an impressive forty-million stories at the dead center.

The streets below were nearly invisible to the naked eye, distance alone assuring that much even for the dark-skinned fiendish generals that patrolled the city garbed in red suits resembling the archetypical genie with a black trim. Most of the populace had learned to either saddle and mount white-scaled dragons of low intelligence, or were simply rich enough to pay others to do the same for them. As a result, the air constantly buzzed with the passing of these draconic beasts of burden with elaborate carriages placed atop them, transporting riders to huge balconies used solely for landing. The eternal dusky hue of the sky above set off everything mentioned in a shimmering hue.

* * *

From gladiatorial battles to heated and often violent debates in the Royal Court of Aensland, the citizens of the City of Spires loved a good show, and today they would get one. As a ruby-studded carriage of onyx drawn by a huge black dragon with fierce green eyes glided swiftly across the cityscape, the prisoner inside had much to ponder.

The ivory face of Lord Gregorio Hartland stared almost listlessly out of a single window in the side, his amber eyes lacking any apparent sign of love or life. His dark hair was braided now and tied with a violet bow, and though his hands were shackled behind him with a crackling red wire of hellfire, he had opted to wear a sparkling black cotehardie with a purple trim at the shoulders to his imminent execution.

"Imminent indeed", he muttered to himself. It had all happened so fast; he had barely gotten over the shock of Kreutz' final ferocious bite to his jugular. He expected to be dead, but was surprised to find he had been allowed to regenerate, and even more so to learn why as he began to struggle against his burning shackles. It was a futile struggle that had ended days ago, breaking a wrist and his spirit in the process.

As the carriage landed on a gold-plated balcony with the red and black insignia of the Aensland family laid into the design of the tiles, two city guards approached, one of them unbolting the door from the outside and motioning to the prisoner inside with a firm glare. Hartland stood up promptly and exited, the evening glow embracing his features as his eyes wandered into the dark hallway just beyond that awaited him.

There was no time to worry now. He did his best to compose himself as the brutish guards lead him inside from behind. He would, at least, die with pride.

* * *

A shadow flitted through the dark stony labyrinth under the Royal Court of Aensland. This chamber seemed infinite as small speckles of bluish light bounced off the corners of stairways and hallways as far down as the eye could see.

In his cell, accompanied only by the dim light of a torch, Gregorio Hartland sat on a stone bench in melancholy silence, a loose bang hanging heavily from his lowered head; a head that rose quickly at the sound of the lock outside being tampered with, his eyes wide as his face tensed.

The cell door opened with an echoing creak, revealing the silhouette of a tall, stunningly voluptuous and athletically statuesque woman whose eyes appeared to glow the most horrible red in the shadowy fog that surrounded her.

The figure walked forward in a single, perfect stride, highlighting her features in the dim light. Frosty, mint colored hair hung straight behind her ears down to her lower back and framed the top half of her face in a semi-curled bang across her forehead above two dazzling emerald eyes sat within a girlish face with a touch of elegance. Though her skin was fair, it had a healthy blush to it in all the right places.

Her choice of outfit was quirky; almost irreverent. A black leather corset that nearly exposed her bountiful breasts was lined at the top with a feathery trim. Under this, she wore red tights with a bat design engraved from the waist down that slid into two black stiletto boots, her arms covered from just below the elbow down in a tight material of the same red color that tapered off at the wrists and hooked around the middle finger of each hand. Predictably, at her waist hung a pair of black demonic wings with red lining, marking her as a member of the Aensland family, along with two smaller versions of these wings jutting from her scalp.

"Well…", Hartland growled in annoyance, "Are you to be my executioner?"

The woman stared at him for a moment, sizing him up, and mused a reply, "I must know; if given the chance, would you fight to be free from this dreadful place? Does the noble Gregorio Hartland willingly resign himself to death?"

"Woman, what does that matter now", the nobleman barked and turned his head away, having no time to react as the woman's slender hand gripped him by his collar and abruptly slammed him against the wall of the cell.

Again he met with those piercing red eyes and a hissing expression, "Those who lose their pride lose also their right to live; you would do well to remember that, Milord."

Hartland narrowed his amber eyes, a rage welling up inside him as he spoke in a growled whisper, "I have more pride than any coward that would bind me in chains and watch me die a prisoner."

Suddenly taken aback, the woman's expression softened and she dropped him, turning away, "Then follow me if you want to live."

* * *

Outside the Royal Court, the middlemost spire of the city, the guards blocking an entrance stood aside as a familiar mint-haired woman in a black gown with red trim and a black diamond necklace exited a hallway with a dark-skinned man with long white hair and deep red eyes in a solid black full plate armor trailed behind.

The woman turned to one of the guards, "Ready a carriage; immediately."

The guard bowed, lowering himself to roughly eye level, "Of course, Lady Morrigan."

Once inside the carriage, the dark-skinned man reverted back to the form of Lord Hartland and looked over at the woman sitting beside him, "So; Morrigan Aensland then."

Morrigan did not return his gaze, "What of it?"

Hartland smirked, "So that's how it is. Tis uneasy being so empowered so young, ne? Surely you yearn for more than the Court can offer, don't you Morrigan?"

Morrigan turned and slapped the man hard across the face, silencing him, "To you I am Lady Morrigan, Heir to Belial Aensland, and what I want is not your concern!" On the outskirts of the city, the carriage landed, and Morrigan glared, "Now get out."

The handsome nobleman turned to step out of the carriage, and then stopped, "You asked me a question back in the dungeon, and now I must ask one in return; why did you save me? What is my life worth to one such as you?"

He was stunned as he felt her delicate chin lay over his shoulder and her soft red lips whispering in his ear, "You have pride, Gregorio; this I can admire, and it was you that discovered the secret of The Gate, was it not?"

Hartland closed his eyes, surprised that the presence of a single woman could shake him so badly, "Indeed."

The voice continued, entering his ear and echoing in his mind, "Stay sharp, and stay proud Milord; these are your saving graces." With a push from behind, the nobleman found himself out of the carriage as it took off with a screech of wind and sailed through the sky back toward the city, leaving the startled Hartland to recollect himself and plan his escape from Aensland territory.

Of course, he did not see the figure that darted out the side of the carriage in mid-air, her gown fading and replacing itself with her earlier described battle armor. Her wings caught the air as she took flight away from the City of Spires and the world she called home. Her thoughts raced as she flew toward the horizon, "Father, how has it come to this? Has the promise of power warped the minds of our people and turned them into cowards? I must know, for myself, the purpose of The Gate and the true power of this place called Human World."


	3. Wild Things

DARKSTALKERS: THE NIGHT WARRIORS

Chapter 3: Wild Things

Fanfiction by Louis the Rogue

(Based on original story by Capcom Inc.)

In our world, there are places men dare not go, and there are mysteries left only for fools to try and solve. Among these places is a lowland in the frozen Rocky Mountains of Canada, and among these mysteries are the inhabitants. They are known by many names, such as Bigfoot and Yeti or even the Missing Link if you believe in the theories of evolution, but here in Canada they are called the Sasquatch.

Those few humans that have braved their way to their village are in disagreement about the exact temperament of the inhabitants, but most agree they are peaceful and accommodating fishermen so long as they are treated as sentient beings; then again, as a testament to their temper when angered, not all humans that make it there ever make it back in the first place.

That said, the primary danger for humans is not necessarily the strong-armed, large-footed, hardily built, and white furred apes known as the Sasquatch themselves, but the environment they choose to surround themselves with. Situated on a lake where the temperature is constantly -30 degrees Celsius, the village known as Crevasse is surrounded by a fierce snowstorm that blows at a rate of 20 miles per second.

The Sasquatch race is notably reclusive, the one-hundred or so living in the village tribe considering themselves a tight-knit family that, while built to survive in the frigid land they call home, never strays too far from their safe haven. One notable exception is the primary guardsman for the village; his name is Quatos, and it is his job to oversee the safety of his entire family from the old village chief known as Tundra to the smallest cubling. He takes his duty very seriously, and even leaves the village to pursue those who would molest his people, such as unscrupulous slavers and poachers.

And so, the old skull-helmed Tundra simply twisted his long white beard and smiled as Quatos ran into his dark, icy cave one day looking panicked, "Yes Quatos? Is something the matter?"

Quatos furrowed his brows over his beady red eyes as he kneeled in respect, "That's right! I have a seen a troubling vision, Elder!"

Tundra released his beard and hopped down off his frigid throne, pacing back and forth in front of it as he listened, "I see; tell me more."

Quatos slammed his large fist into the ice, making a small crater that splintered out in tiny cracks as he spoke, "It was terrible! There was a bright star that appeared in the sky, coming closer and closer… when it came close enough, the land below started to burn. Trees, animals, persons; everything went up in flames! I feared I had seen the end of the world, and I could not sleep all night."

Tundra raised a large, furry brown brow to this, sensing the discomfort of his guardian and friend, "Indeed, a troubling depiction, but such things are symbolic Quatos; not to be taken from a literal perspective."

Quatos turned away with a huff, "It seemed real enough to me."

The large, muscular Quatos felt the wizened hand of Tundra on his shoulder now, and listened as the Elder spoke, "I understand that a noble in Romania is holding a tournament for all darkstalkers that will enter. His powers are said to be great; great enough even to eclipse the sun. Perhaps this is the one of whom the vision spoke?"

Quatos eyes lit up with hope, "Yes! That must be it! Please, Elder, let me go and fight on behalf of our race! I promise to make you proud!"

Tundra turned his head and sighed, "I thought you might ask; you are young yet, Quatos, and reckless. I fear for your safety my friend."

Quatos thumped his own chest with an arm, his big mouth in a confident smile, "It's my responsibility as guardian to oversee the safety of the village; if my vision was right, then I am destined to go and cannot fail!"

Tundra closed his eyes, "Then go with my blessing; you leave now."

Quatos ran out using his knuckles for speed like a great ape. As he leaped a mountain in several strong bounds, he breathed in the fresh air at the top and smiled as the sun rained down on him, "This tournament will be so much fun! I wonder what sort of challengers they will have for me?"

* * *

It is a place of dancing and danger. It is a place where the forest runs deep and the river runs wild. It is a place where your wildest dreams and most terrible nightmares could come true in the same day. It is a place called the Amazon.

The fishing village of Lanza lived in peace with the river. The river provided for them, and in return, they took care to guard the part of it that lay within their territory, keeping the river free of pollution and halting the ever-approaching spread of the more "civilized" men from the North.

As a result, the land that the Lanza people called their own was a pristine rainforest paradise. The tall green trees formed a near-perfect canopy over the fertile land that held the ever-moving green river that twisted through its' boundaries, sunlight only striking through the trees in focused rays that shed light for acres, and often served as meeting places for the fishermen by day. From alligators to insects, all tropical varieties of life flourished in a steady ecosystem of which mankind was but a part.

It was an especially sunny day when a gangly young Lanza with big black eyes, tanned skin, and shaggy blue-black hair named Trucha came walking down the river's edge garbed in naught but a red loincloth and a spear. Trucha was to be twelve years of age on the seventh moon after this one, and as a right of passage he was to wander alone into the forest and survive with only his spear until the sixth moon passed. It was a test to see if he, like his elders, could live in perfect harmony with the forest.

Trucha sat down and leaned over the river, his spear raised as his keen eyes watched for something to swim by. He had only watched for a little while when he noticed that something was amiss. The water was always moving, but it usually moved in a course; today he saw large and disturbing ripples. As he looked up and saw a large shape coming fast down the river, steam pouring from the spout on the top, he knew exactly why the river was so restless and muttered a low curse.

A fat, red-faced little man with a balding head and a bushy dark mustache captained the off-white steamboat; he wore a vanilla suit and a straw hat. Beside him stood a large-built man with scarred tanned skin, dark eyes, and short black hair wearing a striped t-shirt and blue jeans with a gun on a leather belt to his side. Scattered around the deck were at least five more sailors with similar attire to that of the captain's bodyguard.

As the boat noisily chugged its' way down the river, the captain turned to a skinny man with glasses, a white t-shirt, and beige jean shorts sitting on a chair on the shaded side of the deck and glowered, "You told me there would be a golden tower damnit! I see no tower!"

The thin man smiled, puffing on an equally thin cigar in his mouth, "Relax. I promised a tower of gold and a tower of gold you shall have, Monseñor"

The captain's little face scrunched up angrily as he tried to think of something to say. When he felt the index finger of his bodyguard tap his shoulder he snapped at him, "What the hell do you want?"

The bodyguard pointed forward to a figure some distance back standing on the river; not sunk down to his ribs in the water, or floating above it on a raft, but merely standing on the surface of the water as if it were solid, "I wondered what we should do about that, Captain."

The captain pulled out a spyglass and gasped at what he saw. The thing was humanoid, but the resemblance was almost superficial. It was tall and agile-looking with emerald green scales over most of its' body except for the scales over its' face and underbelly, which were a golden yellow. Lining its' back, forearms, and the sides of its' head were angular fins, and its' hands and feet were webbed. It had the face of a noble, beautiful young man with eyes the color of a stormy sea; eyes glaring forward at the boat.

The horrible little man shook with fear. He had heard tales of the famed sirena, or merfolk, but he had never believed them until now. His fear soon turned to rage, "Monstruo! All men fire at will! Kill it before it kills us!"

Trucha had been running up to have a word with the treasure hunters himself when he had seen the specter on the water and kneeled down behind a large bush. Now he watched as a barrage of bullets came flying at the strange being. "Fools", he muttered to himself, "Can they not see that they are in the presence of the Hero of the Deep?"

The gunfire ceased, leaving a cloud of smoke where the creature was. The captain clenched his fists and smiled diabolically, "I've done it! We travel on men! These waters are haunted no more, hahaha!"

His victory speech was cut short by the surprised gasps of the sailors, causing him to look forward, first out of curiosity, and then in shock as the smoke began to clear. The creature had stood fast, the fins on his forearms crossed over his face in a guard. As the fins lowered, the hunters saw the most haunting blue glow in the creatures' eyes, and suddenly heard a voice in their minds, "Pollute not the water; it gives life, and it can take it away!"

Behind the merman was the truth of his convictions; the water began to rise in a wave that swelled higher and higher from as far back as the eye could see until it formed a deadly crest like that of a tsunami and came crashing forward over the guardian and into the boat, smashing it to pieces and dragging the unscrupulous men down to be torn apart on the rocks below.

His grim duty fulfilled, the merman turned and walked to the side of the river, those sharp blue eyes looking to the boy who heard the voice in his mind, "Those who appreciate the river for what it is have nothing to fear from me."

The boy stepped out of the bush and lowered himself in a bow, "Sirena Magno, I am Trucha of the Lanza. Our people are grateful to the guardian that protects the water."

The merman looked to the distance where he sensed the presence of mankind; surely the village this boy spoke of, "I am Aulbath, and I must ask for your aid."

Trucha looked up at the wondrous Aulbath, his eyes wide, "What could a simple fisherman give to The Guardian of the Sea?"

Aulbath now kneeled down to eye level with the boy, "My empire was destroyed by a terremoto beneath the waves; I feel something calling me, across the sea, and so I must leave this place for a time. Your people will guard the water in my place."

Trucha nodded slowly, "Yes, I understand. Will you ever return?"

Aulbath nodded and smiled, "Someday you will need me; I will return then."

* * *

New York City was like most of the big cities in the United States, but with one major exception; it was much bigger. You found all types of people here; all races, all religions, and virtually all outlooks on life with tolerances varied by what neighborhood you were in. In a city this big, everybody had seen everything and nothing seemed new.

So, when the catwomen showed up, nobody really cared. They were considered a gene mutation that only affected women and was passed on to the female offspring. There was no such thing as a catman, and nobody knew why, or really cared. As far as most New Yorkers were concerned, they were just ladies with cat ears, a tail, and rough patches of fur in various places on their bodies. Like everyone else in this city, they were new faces on an old scene; some people tolerated them and some didn't.

Admittedly, the catwomen faced the same prejudice as anyone who has a strange appearance; some people called them monsters, "darkstalkers", and thought they deserved to be destroyed. Thankfully for these women, civil rights groups in the 60's and 70's had made enough of a fuss to earn them semi-equal rights; now they were second-class citizens instead of freaks.

A 16-year-old catgirl named Felicia came skipping home from her job as a waitress one evening, a cheerful smile on her round, blue-eyed face and an upbeat groove to her step as usual. Although her white fur technically covered enough of her vital areas that she could get away with walking around in public without any clothes on, the dictates of her profession required her to wear black pants and a red shirt with a nametag, and her long, blue hair was tied back in a ponytail with a pretty red bow.

Felicia's long white tail waved excitedly behind her agile body as she stared across the street at the apartment she called home. "I wonder how Rose is feeling", she hummed and started to step onto the pavement when a red car suddenly zoomed past and sent her jumping back with a screech. "Hey jerk! Learn to drive!", she hissed at the car as it spun around a corner, making her way across the street in a slow strut to show everyone who wasn't watching that she had nothing to fear.

As she stepped inside the tattered old room, she found an older looking woman with gray-blue hair and droopy white cat-ears laying face down on an old orange sofa in one of her old navy blue dresses. "Heya Rose!", Felicia smiled cheerfully, "I'm back!"

"Felicity", Rose tried her best at a smile and started to sit up, suddenly breaking into a coughing fit that was so bad Felicia had to hold her frail body in her arms and soothe her for a bit before it settled down.

"You sound awful sis", Felicia frowned, "Should I make another appointment with the doctor? I'm sure he can make you all better."

Rose closed her eyes and sighed, "No sister, he can't. Not this time."

Felicia's eyes flashed with alarm, "What are you talking about?"

Rose took Felicia's paw in her own and squeezed lightly, a tear running down her cheek as she leaned into her sister's embrace, "It's getting worse every day sister, this cancer. I don't think I can hold out any longer; I'm so sorry!"

Felicia ran her elongated fingers through Rose's hair as she broke down into a fit of tears in her arms, "There there Rose; just because the doctor only gave you a month doesn't mean it's going to be that way. Have faith; you've already made it a week longer than that crackpot expected, so what did he know, eh?"

Rose sniffed and nodded, "I guess you're right; God will protect all his children, even the ones with funny ears and a tail …why do you put up with me?"

"Don't be silly", Felicia grinned showing her cute little fangs, "You took care of me ever since Mom died; now it's my turn. Now, what do you want for dinner? Spaghetti or taco salad?"

Rose smiled, her eyes still puffy from the tears, "Let's do spaghetti."

That night, the sisters ate together and talked together like they had done so many nights before, but tonight Rose laughed like never before. They had so much fun that they didn't want to go to bed, but Felicia had to work in the morning.

The next morning, as Felicia sat up with a groan to the sound of her alarm clock going off on the desk beside her bed, she reached over and shook Rose lightly, "Rise and shine big sis; I've got work and you've got the dishes."

When Rose didn't respond, or even move, Felicia checked her forehead; it was cold. Fearing the worst, she checked her breathing, and her fears were confirmed.

That night, in an emergency room that was blasphemously white with plastic blue chairs on cheap metal legs, Felicia sat reading over her Bible, hoping to find some comfort and an escape from something she wished wasn't happening right now.

When the doctor came out in his white labcoat with his stethoscope hanging out the pocked and his bowl-cut brown hair matted down, he didn't have to speak before Felicia hung her head and bawled; she could see the defeat in his eyes.

Hours later, she snapped herself out of it long enough to realize visiting hours had long passed. Steadying her nerve, she stood and walked out, constantly trying to read something, anything, just to get her bearings straight. Her eyes fell on a poster near the door that she began to read eagerly the more she looked at it.

Her eyes squinted as she read the important parts aloud, "A tournament… Romania… one month from now…" She looked back down the hall; back toward where they would be preparing the body for the trip to the morgue about now, "Rose… I'll do it. I'll enter and I'll win it all for you, Big Sister; I swear it!"

The tears still in her eyes, she turned and walked out of that horrible place, never to return; her destiny, whatever it entailed, lay ahead of her now. No looking back.

* * *

Across the sea, destiny would touch another life. This time it would hit in a dingy, seaside pub in somewhere in England.

The pub was dimly lit by the red light over the bar, where a pale-skinned man with a spiked Mohawk that had been dyed a strange fuchsia color served drinks to some old codger in a yellow raincoat. There were all the freaks and geeks you'd expect to find in a place like this, each with their own story.

Interestingly enough, it was probably the one normal looking guy sitting alone in the corner that had the most interesting story to tell, assuming of course he was in the mood to talk. He was a handsome forty something with steel blue eyes, silver-gray hair that rose in a rough backward spike-slick over the top of his head and down the back of his neck, and a healthy Caucasian tone to his skin. He wore a brown leather jacket with a furry beige underlining, blue jeans, and dark brown cowboy boots. He looked like a man who had been to hell and back, coming up with the short straw at the end of it all.

He looked hard into another tall glass of beer, his seventh tonight, and sighed with a noticeable dissatisfaction, "Here's to the night, and all I ain't doin' tonight."

"And what is it you'd like to be doing?", a pretty pale woman with long, straight dark hair and handsome green eyes in a red flamenco dress grinned as she sat down beside him.

The man almost spit his beer in surprise, "And who the hell are you?"

The woman leaned back in her seat and smiled sharply, "I'm a pretty girl in an ugly place, and I don't mind sticking around; what's a name to you?"

He started to stand up, his tone smug, "Well, based on what I know about you, you're probably a prostitute or a bar-to-bar saleswoman. Either way, I'm not interested."

The woman flashed him a glare, "Is Jon a bad name for you? Do you prefer Gallon? It is your real name, isn't it?"

Jon stopped dead, and spun around in a flash, breathing down the woman's neck as he leaned over her and growled, "How do you know that name, woman?"

The woman closed her eyes and smiled, "I know many things, Jon Talbain. I'll make you a deal; buy me some time and I'll sell you some answers."

An hour later, the woman had had more to drink than Jon and didn't seem phased; he was drunk, but he was a laid-back, cynical drunk so it didn't really do much for his personality either way. Everyone else had gone home, but the two of them had been talking nonstop since he had bought her the first drink and the bar didn't close for another two hours so they had no intention of stopping now.

"So, you never really knew your father then", she passed the question.

Talbain returned it, "Not really; my mother died in childbirth and nobody really knew what happened to the father. Grew up in an orphanage and I've been on my own ever since more or less."

"More or less?", the woman tilted her head.

Jon shrugged, "I mean, I've had a few buddies here and there, but it's not like I can tell them I'm a werewolf, so they pretty much fade in and out. Humans are a stupid lot anyway; when they're not destroying anything else, they turn on each other. Who needs 'em; if everyone dropped dead except me, the only thing that would change is I'd get my drinks for free."

She frowned, "That's quite a chip you've got on your shoulder."

The lycanthrope just scoffed at that, "Yeah, well, when you've been chased through the woods by a small mob with automatics full of lead meant for your arse, we'll talk about pride and prejudice."

The woman leaned forward now, making sure to catch his eyes before she spoke again, "Even so, as much as you hate people for making your life hell, I get the vibe you'd live a normal life if you could. Am I right?"

Talbain cracked his knuckles and leaned back, breaking the gaze, "Hell yeah, but it's not like that's ever gonna happen. I've been training myself since I was a young punk without a clue, and I can keep the beast in when the moon isn't full, but that doesn't mean a damn thing if I still go nuts once a month, now does it?"

The woman propped her elbow on the table and grinned, "What if I know a way?"

Talbain quirked a brow, "Come again?"

She just grinned for a bit, then straightened up, "Alright, it's like this. Training was a good start, but it's just a workout; even when you do your best, it's only one hundred percent, get it?"

Jon looked perplexed, "Guess I never really thought about it like that, but yeah I'm digging that."

She nodded with a smile and reached into her purse, pulling out a yellow flier and handing it to him, "Read this man."

Jon looked it over, "A tournament in Romania? Shit, now I get it – you're some kind of sports promoter that heard about my street fighting in London. Shoulda known-"

"Nah, it's nothing like that", the woman cut him off.

He blinked at that, really puzzled now, "Then I don't get it. What's the catch?"

She just flashed him that winning smile again, "No catch at all big guy. The only way you'll find what you're looking for is to give it your best and more, and the only chance you've got of that is this tournament." With that, she stood up.

Talbain shook his head, genuinely amazed, "I gotta know; who are you. Really."

The woman closed her eyes as she opened the door, "Like I said, what's in a name? Later." Without another word, she was gone.

Jon looked down at the paper he was holding now, "Jesus, what a night…"

As the woman walked down the street, she passed by a window that reflected her true form; Morrigan Aensland. She smiled to herself in thought, "The half-breed son of Baraba Kreutz; this is going to be a bout to remember."


	4. The Dead Walk

DARKSTALKERS: THE NIGHT WARRIORS

Chapter 4: The Dead Walk

Fanfiction by Louis the Rogue

(Based on original story by Capcom Inc.)

The year is 2630 B.C., and the place is Egypt. The reign of Anakaris, 12th Emperor of a great and powerful dynasty, had come to an abrupt end. The heroic pharaoh, said to be a gleaming bronze man of statuesque build standing over eight feet tall, had finally been defeated in battle. Ever faithful, his servants had muted his death within their abilities and smuggled his body home to be subjected to the proper rites.

Though Anakaris was mummified, the invaders that had taken his life continued their raid across the empire. That raid had lasted for three turbulent years, and without an heir, it seemed the empire was doomed to crumble under the might of its' enemies.

Deep inside the enormous stone pyramid created for him, Anakaris lay in his sapphire studded sarcophagus of gold, streams of crystal clear water lit only by the strategic rows of torches placed above them as they trickled down on either side of the standing coffin.

A bald-headed man in the white robes of the clergy knelt down, the several hundred priests behind him following suit, "Oh Great Anakaris, Emperor of the Twelfth Dynasty, hear your people cry. Rise up against your enemies who beckon you to battle!"

The world around began to tremble as the deep etchings in the sarcophagus, hieroglyphs meant to guide the young pharaoh on his journey, began to glow a brilliant white. The priest closed his eyes tightly, clenching his fist around the ankh he held, "Rise up, and save us! We pledge ourselves to thee, now and forever, our sacred guardian! RISE!"

The light began to shine out in beams from the coffin lid now, as the coffin itself began to dissipate with the force of what was escaping from within. The sarcophagus lost all shape as the blinding light filled the entire room, blocking out all details except for the unmistakable outlines of a being standing still as a statue.

His size alone revealed him, but now his bronze skin would show no more, forever wrapped beneath heavy layers of white linen strips from the neck down. The body was clothed only with a golden kilt inlaid with a sapphire design, a cobra head crown of gold with blue stripes that left the face open, and gold bands with blue stripes over the forearms and shins. The head, which sported a golden goatee accessory, was a burnt brown but perfectly preserved in the form of his noble face save for the eyes, which glowed an intimidating red.

The eyes radiated with power as the first words to form in his head resonated in the minds of every sentient being for one hundred miles around the point at which he stood, "I am risen; the absolute and only God. Kneel before me and be protected with the love of God. Oppose me, and be burned with the flames of Hell."

Outside, a horrible battle between the golden armored warriors of the pharaoh and the black-clad invaders from the north had reached a peak when the voice was heard. The warriors of the pharaoh stopped and kneeled, but the invaders merely raised their axes to attack again. Before the blades could be lowered, they too ceased to fight – or to move at all.

The red sun above grew large as it began to set by the will of the pharaoh. The screams of a thousand and ten men echoed into the night as the invaders burned alive in their smoldering armor, their axes dropping uselessly into the golden sand.

Inside the pyramid, Anakaris lowered his head, "It is done." No sooner had he said this than he looked up, with a start, at something only he could see.

The elder priest at the front slowly looked up, "What is it, My Lord?"

Anakaris began to emulate the blinding white light again as his form began to waver within it, "Fear not. A voice calls me, from the future. I must go there now and prepare a place in time for my empire. Thy God shall not forsake thee now or ever."

* * *

Four thousand, four hundred and sixty years hence, within the confines of an abandoned laboratory in the mountains of Germany, another being of incredible power would receive the spark of life.

The laboratory was a strange arrangement. Upon a black and white checkered marble floor stood bizarre machinery of all kinds hooked to a single, gargantuan conductor unit resembling a metal shaft reaching up through the circular hole in the roof. One of the many devices plugged into the thing was a large metal slab, upon which an equally large figure wrapped in a white sheet lay.

Stranger still was the man leaning over the figure; a hunchbacked old man with bushy white hair with a tiny nose and thick goggles that covered most of his face in a white labcoat was busily attaching and reattaching wires to the thing under the sheet.

Professor Schloss Von Gerdenheim, as he was called, was a man of science. His theories on dead cell revival were revolutionary, but they had fallen on the deaf ears of a corrupt system, and his numerous experiments had been debunked as unethical and inhumane. Though society had forgotten him, he had not forgotten his dreams, and now, with a massive storm moving overhead, he would finally achieve his goal.

In an instant, a single man would create life out of death.

"Emily", the professor shouted excitedly as he hurriedly attached the last of the wires, "Is everything in place?"

A pale little girl in a pink dress with brown hair in pigtails and large blue eyes hovered above the lab, showering a spark or two from her body now and then as she checked over the machinery, "Yes Papa, the connections are in place!"

Professor Gerdenheim's face twisted into a euphoric smile as he looked at his pocket watch, still hunched over the figure in the sheet, "It is almost time. The lightning, it is about to strike any time now!"

Emily looked up at the ceiling with wide eyes, "Papa, I see it! I see it!"

The professor could barely contain himself as he saw the sparks begin at the top of the shaft and work their way down. Thinking only that he wished to be closer to his creation, he gripped the sides of the metal slab and screamed as the lightning came down, electrocuting him. His body gyrated as he spoke his final words, "Victor! Live, my son! Live!"

The blinding flash lasted only for a moment, leaving the laboratory in darkness for several minutes after it left. After that, the emergency power generator switched on and revealed the doctor lying against the slab, no more than a charred skeleton inside a burnt but still virtually intact labcoat.

Emily had ducked and covered as the lightning hit, but now, as light returned to the room, she stood up and covered her mouth in terror at what she saw. Rushing to the doctor's side, she held him in her arms, and would have cried if she were capable of such an endeavor.

She had no time to mourn; her attention was immediately directed upward to the thing on the slab; the sheet was moving up and down. Whatever was underneath, it was clearly breathing.

Standing abruptly, she tore the sheet away to look at him. He was a giant of a man with skin that had an icy blue pallor and wavy blonde hair. His large, muscular frame, clothed in red pants, large brown boots, navy blue fingerless gloves, and a one-sleeved green military jacket, was rudely stitched together. The creature had bolts sticking out the side of its' head which constantly sparked with electricity, his face was square and brutish, and his wide-open eyes were a filmy white.

Emily took the creature's hand and smiled her sweet little smile, "Hello, little brother. I am Emily; welcome home."

The creature sat up, leaning over and staring at her for a long, tense moment before he responded, "The doctor, Emily; he will see me now?"

Emily had to look away, "Not now, Victor; the doctor is resting."

Victor was puzzled, but stood up, thumping his chest and roaring, "The doctor made me to be strong! I will show the world how strong I really am!"

Emily sighed; as the doctor had intended, he was a born fighter. However, he was reckless, and educating him would be more difficult than she thought.

* * *

The tiny village of Tomadou never had a chance that night. Laid within the snowy mountains of Japan, the wooden huts looked like igloos under layers of snow that rounded them off at the top. The dwellings were each lit with a single lamp from within.

The people, who wore their usual grayed kimonos and straw hats, were running in a frenzy as they tried desperately to escape a death that struck from the shadows.

It had come without warning, and without pity. Indiscriminately the villagers fell; men, women, and children, slashed across the heart by the blade of a razor sharp katana.

The thing, when it struck, appeared in the form of a ghostly and disfigured man wearing a suit of blood red samurai armor with gold trim. The breastplate of the armor was a twisted thing resembling a demonic face with burning red eyes and jagged teeth. It was this part of the armor, not the demented face in the helmet, that spoke to itself as the figure continued its' assault, "This earth is rich with the blood of fools…"

* * *

The legend of the swordsman Oboro is a tale of greed and woe. His destiny is forever linked with that of Hannya, the armor of hate, and Kien, the bloodthirsty sword. Each of them is a third of Bishamon, the Cursed Samurai.

The story began in the year 1673. It was a time when traditions were unquestioned and the power of Japan belonged to the nobility. The lesser noble warriors known as samurai still followed the code of Bushidou then, as did their lords above them.

The samurai Oboro was a shining example of the code. So firm had been his resolve that even the snowstorms in the mountains could not deter him from a battle, and so great had been his loyalty to his lord that he was looked on as a son and given deeds to an amount of land exceeded in size only by the one he served. Even his wife, Orin, was a blessing to him: an exceedingly virtuous maiden notable for her loyalty to her husband.

One day, as he was exploring an old friend's antique shop, he noticed a new item for sale that he had never seen before. It was a suit of armor with a grotesque face for the breastplate, the plates purposely painted a pale crimson color resembling rust, but the golden trim was so finely polished as to swear to its' upkeep. "Tell me about this one", Oboro insisted.

"It is very old", the man began, "The armor was last worn by the warrior Oda Nobunaga, and with it he became one of the greatest scourges of the east. It is called Hannya, and they say that the armor chooses its' wearer; not the other way around."

"Hannya", Oboro repeated to himself, enjoying the sound of it.

The man motioned to a sword beside the armor, a beautiful katana with a golden handguard, "And this is Kien, once known as Onikiri. Unlike most swords, which are dulled as they cut through flesh, this magnificent blade only grows sharper."

Oboro nodded, lightly stroking the armor, "I must see the sword…"

It was then that Oboro awoke, alone in his house, to find that Hannya and Kien were by his side. He cried out in surprise and Orin wandered in, "Oboro?"

Oboro looked up at her, "Where did these come from?"

Orin could not look at him, but as he held her in his arms, tilting her face to his own, she spoke with a waver, "Your friend, the merchant; you forced him to give you the armor and sword. He is very afraid and will not see you."

In disbelief, Oboro found his vision transfixed on the armor as he sat down before it. Was it really possible? Could Hannya have a will of its' own? Had it chosen him?

For days he sat there, meditating on this. He did not eat or sleep. One day, he made his decision and grasped the armor as he stood. Orin had been by his side the entire time, and now she wept, "My love, this is wrong! This thing, it is evil! Take it not upon yourself, or the demon will consume your soul! I beg of you!"

"Do not say such stupid things, woman", Oboro growled as he lifted the large, ugly breastplate onto himself. Without warning, the remainder of the armor sprung to life and clung to his body, which began to take on a smoky blue glow. His eyes wide with terror, he looked to his beloved wife and screamed his final words as his body began to distort and burn, "Orin! Run!"

Orin stood fast, unwilling to leave his side. The foolish man hunched over, screaming in agony, but what rose was not Oboro; it was Bishamon now, and it looked to her with a hateful red light in its' eyes as it dashed forward, sword in hand, "Die for me!"

* * *

The demonic warrior cut down another helpless victim with a single strike of its' blade as it continued to remember, "Since then, I have cut a path of destruction and death across this land without wars. The journey has no destination save for the means; I must be satisfied with offerings. Offerings of your blood, gyahahaha!"

It stopped, as it severed the head from the last of the lot, and looked up toward the distance. A twisted smile came over the face in the helmet, "Yes, I sense you. A kindred spirit of death and destruction summons me to do battle. The blood of the dark is freely offered; my joy knows no bounds!"

With a bounce in its' step, the monster skipped down the mountain, floating here and there, its' evil mind preoccupied with the wonderful battles that surely lay ahead.

* * *

Gallows Hill was a forbidding place. The sleepy little town had been named after the graveyard on the hill. It seemed that a cloud of despair always hung over the cemetery, the decadent tombstones casting long shadows over earth long too barren to remember what life growing in it should feel like. The corpses interred here were not of the commonfolk, nor was it a family plot; buried beneath this unhallowed ground were some of the most dangerous criminals in Australia's history.

Tonight, a full moon would preside over two figures before a large needlestone, inches away from the grave it marked. One of them was extremely tall, easily eight to ten feet high, with incredibly broad shoulders over which a hunter green cloak hung, concealing the remainder of his body from the neck down; above the neck was the visible face of a bleached skull with long blonde hair trailing from its' back.

Beside him was a shorter thing resembling a woman carved of wood with auburn hair that was short in back but hung in a large bang in front; she had the most empty black eyes and a lonely expression as she stood there in what appeared to be a maple-colored dress meant for a large doll.

The joints in her neck barely moved as she looked up to her imposing companion, "Yes, Master; this is the place. What are your orders?"

A dim red light flashed in the eyes of the empty skull, "Prepare the grave, Marionette." As the doll woman began to pour a red, ichorous liquid over the grave in a design resembling two crescent moons placed back to back, the demonic creature standing over her began to concentrate, his eyes producing a horrible green fire that trailed over the sides of his bony face.

No sooner had Marionette finished than the flames enshrouded him. Fear at the sight alone sent her scrambling back to watch from behind a stone as the monster stretched forward his hands and fired what looked like emerald-colored lightning into the gravedirt, the ground rumbling with the force of the raw power being infused with it.

Marionette dared to speak as she looked on in terror, "Master Ozomu, what is this horrible power I am sensing? Is it you, or the one you spoke of? Your servant was buried here, the murderous bard called Zabel Zarock. He was dangerous, to himself and others, and now, twenty years hence his death you seek to return him to your side. I question not your judgment, my Master, but what do we really have to gain here?"

Emperor Ozomu had barely ceased fire on the grave when he turned and cast fort the horrible attack from his fingertips at the doll, knocking her onto her back and forcing her to writhe for a long moment before he ceased, his eye sockets narrowing, "You are not fit to speak so lowly of my apprentice; bite your tongue!"

Without warning, the ground began to tremble again, this time of its' own accord, as the earth over the grave began to glow in a bright green rectangle before the tombstone, the light emitting a metallic chime as it began to rise up in a column as if to touch the moon above. Ozomu turned on his heel and flashed a horrible smile, "Excellent; the summons has been answered! Return to me, Zabel!"

No sooner had he spoken than the grave burst upward, the disturbed dirt melting into the light as it intensified to a blinding brightness that blocked out all else. The chiming began a crescendo, which climaxed in a waver, and the light dissipated in but a second, narrowing into nothing and leaving a gaping, rectangular hole in the ground where it had been.

Marionette crawled forward slowly to the edge of the grave and looked down for a moment, then looked back to her master, "I see nothing; there is nothing here!"

"What?", Ozomu shrieked and batted her aside as he looked down into the hole, "Impossible! Could someone have beaten me? No! I refuse to believe it!"

Just then, the wailing chorus of a distorted guitar echoed through the sky, sounding a lament of doom to the world below. Both master and puppet looked up to see a personage high above descending at a dramatically slow pace.

As it came into view, details could be made out. It was without a doubt a corpse, the facial features long since lost to decay and now resembling the skull-like face of Ozomu, atop which hair rose up in sharp spikes of the deepest lavender hue down the back of the head, tapering off in a thick spike at the back of the neck. The body was shirtless, with hardened, bleached-looking skin stretched tightly over visible bones, the rot-yellow claw-like hands covered with elbow-length black fingerless gloves, and naught but the barely fleshed over backbone to connect the creature's ribs to its' waist. From the waist down, it wore tight black jeans with a Union Jack emblazoned on one leg, below which hung a spiked steel leg cuff, the legs below that almost all bones that the torn leggings of the jeans struggled to conceal. In the eye sockets burned a wild red light like a vicious predator stalking its' prey as it perched atop the tombstone of its' own grave.

Ozomu cackled, "Welcome, Zabel – I trust you enjoyed your rest?"

A long, red, leathery tongue snaked from the creatures' mouth as its' jaw lowered and twisted into a demented, drooling smile, "Die!" Within a moment, it had bounded at Ozomu like a hungry tiger and been swatted aside, smashing through a tombstone as green electricity sparked briefly off its' body.

As the thing lay panting for air it did not need, Ozomu stared forward calmly, "Temporary insanity is the price of rebirth. Have you regained yourself?"

The creature, Zabel, rose onto one knee and looked up with a nod.

Ozomu's eyes flashed with that dim red spark again, "It has been a long time since you've killed someone, hasn't it Zabel?"

Zabel twisted his neck around, his eyes filled with malice, "I waz detained."

Ozomu made his best attempt at a winning smile as his eyes met Zabel's, "Yes, I know; death is such a bother, but it seems you have been spared that fate."

Zabel sneered back up at him, "Does, dunnit?"

Ozomu's face became more solemn now, "You will kill again for me; like you did at the Southern Cross Hall."

Zabel's face contorted with a thoughtful sadism, "A hundred souls sucked dry; how do I top a number like that, boss?"

Ozomu's smile returned now, more triumphant than before, "There is a tournament in Romania, and do you know who will be competing?"

Zabel scratched his head, "Yer mother?"

Ozomu rose up angrily, his person flaring with the green fire once more, "No, you fool! Two nobles of Makai! The exiled Demitri Maximoff and Lady Morrigan Aensland herself!"

Zabel's posture relaxed even more, his expression an ornery one, "So, it's a two for one – what's innit fer me?"

Ozomu let out a deep chuckle to that and reached down with lightning speed, taking Zabel's face firmly in his horrid hands and giving the assassin his sweetest tone through his large, gritted teeth, "Why, the power to rule the world, my boy!"

Their gazes locked, the two were silent for a long moment before they burst into a mutual laugh; both parties had consented and a deal was forged.

As she witnessed the bizarre innuendo, Marionette clung to the stone beside her for more than support. Zabel was a killer, there was no doubt about that, but what could possibly be going on in that rotten skull? Who, indeed, did he plan to kill?


	5. Rendezvous

DARKSTALKERS: THE NIGHT WARRIORS

Chapter 5: Rendezvous

Fanfiction by Louis the Rogue

(Based on original story by Capcom Inc.)

It is only human to be afraid if you only talk to humans; if you could get an honest answer from the creatures of the night, each would tell you in turn that fear was only natural to them. However, you would be hard-pressed to get such an answer from the majority of the dark ones. Fear, shame, and even joy: the children of Makai wear masks to cover such things the same as the children of men.

On the noon of the day before the approaching Dark Tournament, a train chugged noisily along the tracks through a pine forest around the Transylvanian Alps. This train carried two dark ones who had yet to shed their masks.

The inside of the long, steel snake that was the train could be described as having a certain charm reminiscent of the turn of the century. Though not lavishing, the accommodations for the passengers were by no means modest; the booth-like seats that lined the cars on either side of an oak floor were furnished with a comfortable red cushioning, and the inner walls and ceiling appeared to have a lovely brass shine that set off the red of the seats. Though the steel frames of the doors leading between the cars were clearly modern, even these conveniences were painted over with a wood finish.

Among the many passengers in the cars, all of them dressed for colder weather than the journey currently provided, was a man with silver-gray hair, steel blue eyes, and a healthy Caucasian tone to his skin. He was clearly dressed for an event of some sort, his well-toned, lean-muscled frame garbed in a sleeveless indigo jumpsuit tied at the waist by a golden cloth belt that would have been associated with a martial artist by the way it was tied in front alone and brown sandals on his feet.

Jon Talbain, the name the man was most known by, had found himself sitting next to a white-furred catwoman with large blue eyes and long blue hair held back by a white hair band in front of her large white cat ears, save of course for a large, semi-curled bang that hung cutely out in front. For whatever reason, the girl had chosen not to wear any sort of clothing on her journey, and the fact that her fur grew beautifully over her well-developed body in a makeshift outfit didn't make it any easier to be a gentleman.

For this reason alone, Mr. Talbain had spent the majority of the journey so far staring out the window at the mountains, only daring a sideways glance when he was certain that his young companion wasn't looking his way. Unfortunately, luck was not with him that day, as it was the girl who looked to him and spoke first, "You look tense; big business trip or something?"

His casual glance shifted her way as he spoke with a smirk, "Yeah, the boss actually said casual dress was ok so I thought I'd bring my training clothes; they're so stylish and comfortable that I imagine they'll be making a comeback any day now."

The girl blushed in response to that, but laughed it off, "Yeah, dumb question, huh? My name's Felicia and I'm here on business of a sort from New York."

Talbain quirked a brow, "Business of a sort?"

Felicia nodded with that usual optimistic shine to her eyes, "Uh huh; I'm actually on my way to Zeltzereich to compete in Demitri Maximoff's tournament tomorrow. With all the crazy fighters from around the world, it should be a lot of fun."

"Oh great", Jon thought to himself, "I just hope I'm not the one that has to kill her." He crossed his arms over his chest, his expression perpetually condescending, "I don't know what your idea of fun is Miss Kitty, but if you really plan on going through with this I owe you a few pointers as a soldier and a gentleman."

"Pointers?", Felicia tilted her head in confusion, "So… you are competing then! Wow, you must be some kind've spy 'cuz I'd never have known you from A-"

Talbain placed a finger to her lips and shook his head as his eyes met hers in an incredulous stare, "Are you crazy or something? You think I want it out that I'm a…"

"A darkstalker?", Felicia taunted, "So what? You don't scare me."

"Well, that makes one out of twenty in this car alone, and to be blunt you're only seeing my better half lady", he grimaced, looking out the window again.

Felicia's ears drooped, and a look of sympathy came over her face as she placed her paw on his tightened shoulder, "It isn't easy being different, is it? If it's any consolation, The Lord looks upon us with all with loving eyes…"

Talbain crossed his arms behind his head as he relaxed in his seat, his eyes closed and a look of pure annoyance on his face, "Christ, spare me…"

Felicia almost winced as she took her hand away and looked down at the floor, "Have it your way, Mr. Talbain. I understand we'll be arriving this evening."

Talbain smiled roguishly, eyes still shut, "Yep, and I'm gonna rest up until we get there. You should probably do the same, Sister Christian."

Felicia crossed her arms over her ample chest and turned to face the hallway as she relaxed in her seat, her cute little face in a pout. "Jerk", she muttered to herself.

Talbain only smiled as he drifted off beside her.

* * *

Hours later, the sun was setting as the train slowed to a stop, steam escaping the wheels as it pulled into a square, wooden station in the forest. As the side doors slid open, the passengers filed out, Mr. Talbain stepping out behind Felicia, who walked with a straighter posture that normal and her arms still crossed, her eyes closed to cement her indifferent expression and her tail squared behind her.

Talbain actually followed after her, trying not to laugh, "Look lady, I'm sorry about earlier, but listen; in all honesty I think you're a nice girl and I don't wanna see you get hurt."

Felicia turned squarely on her heel and glared at him, "Thanks for the sentiment Sir, but I'm sure you've got more important things to worry about than little people like me, now don't you?" With a huff, she turned and walked off.

"Felicia!", Jon shouted after her, but she was clearly ignoring him now.

Behind him, a tall, ivory-skinned man with long, wavy lavender hair hanging over his broad shoulders, along with an ankle-length brown canvas coat that had a beige fur lining the heavy collar and cuffs and a crazy flame-colored decal stripe on the militant shoulder patches and in a zigzag along the part down the middle, walked up behind Talbain with a black guitar case held over his shoulder and an ornery grin on his face, which would have been almost boyish if not for his pupiless eyes that resembled full moons resting in pools of black. The strange fellow was lighting up a cigarette as he spoke, "Women – why bother?"

Talbain looked to him half-annoyed and half-amused, "Whatever you say, Ozzy."

As he walked off, the man in the coat stood where he was but laughed after him, "Yeah, an' you look real classy in that karate belt dude…"

Talbain didn't hear him though; he was speed walking after Felicia past a sign noting the entrance to Zeltzereich and down a path through the woods. Unfortunately, she was doing the same at this point and, even if he did catch up to her, he would have remained silent since he really didn't know what else to say at this point.

In front of the mutually unaccommodating pair, several other figures were making their way down the dirt road toward a castle on a plateau reaching high enough through the trees to be seen in the distance. Among them was a green and gold scaled creature who couldn't seem to make up his mind if he was a man, fish, or something in between, and a gorgeous, sophisticated looking blonde with green eyes in a satin-colored, form-fitting dress with a white fur boa around her shoulders and black heels. The others were too far ahead to make out any details, but judging by the confident way in which they all carried themselves, they were headed to the same destination.

Jon had just resigned himself with a sigh to leaving the girl alone when he heard the man with the guitar stumbling along behind him, "This'z a load-a-bunk; you'd think they would've put the station a little closer to the bloody castle're something."

Talbain rolled his eyes and kept walking. "If I'm stuck fighting these losers", he thought to himself, "I think I'll ask for a refund when I win."

It was dark by the time the group reached the castle, the sun long lost behind the gray clouds during the last leg of their journey. Castle Zeltzereich was no less ominous to behold than ever as it stood there before them on that dead, muddy land, but now torches hung beside the large iron portcullis that served as its' gate, lighting the area around.

There were ten of the visitors in all; standing amidst those already mentioned were five others including a white-furred bigfoot with a cocky smile, a tall, muscular mummy decked out in gold and blue who looked like he was trying to project an air of importance that only he recognized, a thing in a green jacket that looked like Frankenstein's Monster with better fashion sense but the same dull expression, and a disfigured ghost in a suit of red armor, jagged teeth bared and katana in hand.

There was one more who seemed to be keeping his distance, eyes on the others; a bald, muscle-bound man with tanned skin, brown eyes, a white beard, baggy white breeches over his legs, gold moccasins at his ankles, and a black vest with a golden trim to match the gold cuffs at his wrists.

Altogether, they must have looked like a chaotic mesh of cultures to the man who walked under the portcullis as it began to rise up above him. He was a thin old man with pale skin, long white hair that laid in a curl, and a pointed goatee dressed in a gray, tailed tuxedo with gold buttons down the front, and a monocle hanging from one eye. The torchlight cast grotesque shadows over his face, making it appear much more wizened than usual, especially around his fine Roman nose.

The poised old man gave a reserved bow and smiled cordially as he spoke, "Master Demitri welcomes you all to Zeltzereich; please step this way." With that, he grabbed a torch from beside him, turned gracefully around, and began walking inside the gate, the others treading almost silently behind him down a dark, marble-tiled hallway.

When they reached the light at the end, the contestants found themselves standing in a splendid ballroom with a marble floor whose tiles were checkered in gold and white. The white stone walls rose upward in a tremendous octagon around that, each side fitted with a large rectangular window that arced in a semicircle at the top, the panes of glass actually fitted into a golden web design that was unique to each window: only one wall contained no such window, and it was covered with huge red drapes that framed a large portrait of the castle's current master, archetypically brooding in the shadows. Above this was an intricate, red-carpeted marble balcony with a golden rail leading around and down an equally carpeted flight of marble stairs. Finally, above even that, rose a domed stone roof with a lit spiral chandelier of immeasurable size given the fact that, high as it was, the light it shed was enough to cast a golden glow about the entire room.

The host gestured upwards to three arced stone hallways leading back from the top of the balcony on the opposite side of the stairs, "The side halls will take you to your private quarters; I trust you will find them individually suited to match your tastes. As you know, there is to be a ball this evening in your honor, beginning at precisely midnight; it is then that Lord Maximoff will make himself known to you. Though you are all invited, you may choose not to attend; the Master wishes that you all prepare for tomorrow's tournament in whatever way you see fit."

Lightly bowing his head once more, the old man retreated up the stairs and down the middle hallway, leaving the others to their preparations.

* * *

Two hours later, the ball had gotten well underway, the forty-something servants waltzing across the ballroom floor, elegant ladies dressed in beautiful gowns of gold, white, red, and blue, and the gentlemen leading them in solid black tuxedos with blood red neckerchiefs in place of bows. Their perpetually smiling expressions were genuine; since having their souls tainted with the power of their Master, serving him had been their greatest joy, and every ball was a glorious occasion to celebrate for him.

Stepping out of the darkness of the left hallway was Mr. Talbain, his hair appropriately slicked neatly back behind his ears and his warrior's body now sporting a tuxedo as black as the gentlemen on the floor, with a white breast and golden bowtie that he kept straightening with a look of slight discomfort as he leaned over the railing on his elbows and watched the party below.

"It's quite a party for simple folk such as these", a sultry voice cooed from behind him; he turned to see the blonde woman from before, the elaborate emerald gown she wore tying up at the gold collar around her neck and setting off her equally green eyes that seemed so familiar to him.

Talbain couldn't shake the similarity, but the amazement seemed to cross his face for a moment before he lightened up, "You read my mind". With an amused grin, he offered his hand, "Jon-"

"Talbain?", she finished for him, pursing her lips in a quaint smile.

He nodded with that surprised look on his face again, "Yes, how did you know?"

The woman pulled a stylish pair of spectacles out of the jade-colored purse over her arm and smiled as she adjusted them on her pretty nose, "Yes, I never forget a face. I saw your street fight in London and was thoroughly amazed. By the way, I haven't introduced myself", she shook his hand now, "I'm Jean Bianca with the London Times. I understand you'll be competing in the tournament tomorrow. Care to comment?"

Jon ran his hand through his hair with a nervous grin, "Is this an official comment?"

Ms. Bianca smiled pleasantly to that, "Well, in all honesty I'm here to report on the tournament in general; if you wish to withhold your identity, I can always list you as an anonymous fighter, Mr. Talbain."

He nodded, "I'd like that; with all due respect Miss, you can't imagine what it's like to have to live a double life."

Ms. Bianca's green eyes twinkled through her glasses, "I'm sure."

About that time, an attractive young catwoman exited the right hallway in a sparkling white dress reminiscent of Marilynn Monroe, her exotic blue hair done up in an elaborate bun down her back accented with two lighter blue stripes of hair tucking around the bun and behind her ears to dangle over her shoulders, and topped with a white tiara in front to set off the whole princess theme.

Talbain's jaw almost dropped as he watched her descent the stairs silently, and he turned to the reporter with a half-apologetic expression, "Would you excuse me?"

With what almost resembled caution, Jon followed the feline beauty down the stairs and into the crowd, oblivious to the fact that she was smiling confidently to herself as she turned around and stared him in the eyes, "I'm curious, Mr. Talbain: are your feet as quick as your mouth? And if so, care to prove it?"

With his typical boyish smile, Jon Talbain took her paws into his own hands and assumed the proper posture, "Do you waltz, Miss Felicia?"

Felicia's eyes sparkled, returning his playful demeanor, "Naturally."

As they danced, step after step and breath after breath, the unlikely partners found themselves drawing closer into an awkward embrace, as if compelled to do so. The night seemed forever young for them, gazing into each other's eyes, and though neither knew why or ever would have had admitted it, at that moment in time they wanted for nothing more in the world.

Jon felt bad now for the way he had spoken to her; in spite of her simplicity, this beautiful creature's innocence was the very thing that made her attractive to him. He wanted to tell her, but he wouldn't get the chance as a familiar ivory-skinned man in a purple tuxedo with a black neckerchief stole it away, "Mind if I cut in?"

Felicia shrieked a laugh as she was swept back into the crowd with a new partner, leaving Talbain to shake his head and smile as he watched, "Son of a bitch…"

Suddenly, the dancing stopped as every one of the servants froze in place and looked up at the balcony, the remaining partygoers soon catching on and following suit. Atop the balcony stood the elderly host from before, smiling with empty black eyes as he waited for the noise to completely dull before continuing, "Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you all for attending, and the Master thanks you. He now wishes to meet you all in person. I humbly present… Lord Demitri Maximoff."

Walking forward from the shadows of the middle hall, his glowing red eyes the first coherent shapes to form in the darkness, Demitri exited in his familiar nobleman's garb and placed a large hand on the old man's shoulder, looking to the crowd with an expression that would have been solemn were it not for his half-amused grin, "To repeat my confidante, I thank you all for showing and look forward to our bout in the morning; if there be any truth to your reputations, it will no doubt be enjoyable for the both of us. Until then, I encourage you to make yourselves merry on this most rare of occasions."

With a graceful little bow at his waist, the dark lord turned and exited the room, and the merriment did indeed continue so long as the light remained in quiet retreat. The morning would bring many things; excitement, danger, and perhaps even death, but now was not a time to dwell on such matters. Now was a time for celebration.

* * *

Still, the morning came all too quickly. It would find all ten contestants gathered in the ballroom, which was no longer filled with the life of a party, but still as stone and quiet as death. Though red drapes had been placed over the windows, the room was still lit by torches placed on either side of the ground entrance hallway.

His golden boots making an echoing thud as he traversed through the silence, Demitri descended the stairs, a brass candelabrum in hand, and strode past his challengers to a specific tile in the floor, stomping down hard on it. Under the pressure of the thunderous step, the panel lowered and a door slid open in the middle of the floor with a whoosh of air escaping up the stairs leading down from the rectangular hole.

Demitri raised the decorative lights to his face and smiled with a sinister satisfaction, "The bottom-most levels of my castle comprise a labyrinth, and such shall be the grounds for my tournament. You are each to take a separate hallway upon reaching the bottom of the stairs, and will consequently each end up in a different room. The rooms all connect eventually, and you are free to wander and fight at will when the bell sounds. From that point forward, the winner is the last one standing. These are the rules to the game, and the game begins now. Shall we proceed?"


	6. Demitri's Game

DARKSTALKERS: THE NIGHT WARRIORS

Chapter 6: Demitri's Game

Fanfiction by Louis the Rogue

(Original story by Capcom Inc.)

Jon felt a sudden wind blow through the indigo cloth surrounding his flesh as he walked down a dark hallway, the one meant for him, alone. Though he could scarcely see around him for the darkness, he knew that he was walking on a cobblestone floor, and that the air was damp around him like a cave, or… the inside of a sewer.

His keen senses couldn't get over the trace of sounds and smells far past what the light that surely waited at the end of the tunnel could yet show him. So familiar was that smell in the air – it wasn't ale, no he smelled that too, but what made his mind swim was the scent of excitement in the air. The kind that permeated the atmosphere around a place where the party never ended and the drinks were always on the house. He'd been to a place like that once back home, and he had to remind himself that it had been a long time ago when he was a younger man with dreams left to burn.

"Still", he whispered to no one, "It's just like I remember!" Before he could catch himself, he was running; not as a man runs, but like a dog on all fours, his mouth open wide and panting to keep up with his elevated heartbeat, and his eyes as wide as a child. The light came into view around a turn, growing nearer and nearer as he ran.

And then he fell, tripping on a raised stone and rolling into the street with an umph. As he braced himself on an arm and looked up, he swore it had to be a dream. The Clachan Hotel, name boldly displayed above the skinny windowed wooden double doors leading into the intricate three-story cul-de-sac stone hotel that spanned a block back from the main street, every balconied window alive with a yellowish light from within as the various, scantily dressed denizens danced, drank, and carried on, was here. The party had long since spilled out into the streets of the modest little suburb, the snow collecting on the tops of the various brick and wood townhouses congregated together below the full moon barely deterring them all from their lewd activities.

The full moon. Jon Talbain found himself gasping for air as he leaned against a bronze streetlamp with a colonial ball cover at the top for support. He was taken aback as a cute, redheaded woman with a flush on her face, the remains of her fur coat barely covering her, stumbled up with the sickening smell of beer all over her and clung to his side, "Ooh, you look like a mess; too much to drink tonight hunny?"

He was sweating now, and the tipsy brode had nothing to do with it. As the light fell upon him, he had felt his muscles begin to tense and spasm, his blood literally boiling inside him as he clung for dear life to the metal post, his nails beginning to dig into it as they hardened against his will. It was all he could do to throw the woman off of him, sending her skidding across the street harshly. He looked up with the pale yellow eyes of a wolf and a horrified expression on his face, and screamed, "Get away from me!"

In her drunken stupor, the woman had been left speechless, and she watched in terror, a hysterical fit of tears overcoming her as the man began to change before her very eyes in the golden light of the hotel accented by the rays of the pale moon.

Clutching at his chest for air, Talbain screamed a futile prayer for sins he had only committed in his mind, but only an agonized howl escaped in its' place. Completely ripping off his shirt in the frenzy, the poor man arched back impossibly far for a human spine, his legs beginning to bend with new joints like the hind legs of a canine. His hands were growing into elongated claws at the same time, his eyes wide with the pain as his own face stretched out into a lupine muzzle. Finally, as his ears grew up around his dog-like head, his silver hair grew out into thick fur all around his body, separating into rings of blue and white that beautifully framed his form, marking him as a beast most rare.

Garbed only in a pair of ripped indigo trousers tied at the top with a golden belt, the lycanthrope stood on his hind legs, looking down at the woman who had long since become too shaken to move, utterly mesmerized by her own terror.

A whimper escaped past sharp yellow fangs as what was left of Jon Talbain gripped the woman at the shoulders and shook her violently in a desperate attempt to snap her back to reality. As her head hung back and her racing pulse began to ebb, he dropped her, looking around frantically like an animal expecting to be hunted.

And that's when he saw him. Standing atop the hotel itself, his ebony cape pulled tightly around as he watched the spectacle through his fiery red eyes, was Demitri Maximoff. For only a moment, the beast below showed a fierce and judging anger in his eyes as Talbain took control and growled up in a deep, strained voice as if a dog was speaking, "Damn you!"

The little mouth on Demitri's angular face drew up in a smirk on one side, and he threw the cloak behind him to reveal he was wearing his traditional nobleman's garb as he readied a mid-stance where he stood, "How gracious of you, Mr. Talbain."

With a single bound off his powerful legs, the wolf had just missed clearing the climb up the building entirely, his razor sharp claws making sparks as they dug into the stone until he clung securely to the edge. Pulling himself up by arm strength alone, he landed in what resembled a crouch stance on the roof.

On the opposite side of the building from him stood Demitri, his back turned as he looked up into the sky, "You'll forgive the unannounced variable of your room; I insist on fighting my opponents at their best advantage so they will know when I crush them with my own two hands!" With a fierce turn, Demitri's right hand ignited with a spark drawn from the fires of the Makai itself, and he threw it in a ball that twisted into the shape of a horrible face as it screamed headlong at his opponent.

The wolf's eyes widened as the chaotic flare slammed into the center of his chest. It would have succeeded in knocking him from the roof had he not clung to the edge with his hind paws using every ounce of strength in his toes, and yet the black burn remained where it had struck him, smoke trailing away slowly.

Demitri drew his cloak around him, fading away momentarily like a ghost before reappearing beside the wolf, pulling back the cape with his left hand, and launching another fiery cannonball at the balancing lycanthrope.

But this time, it was different. With a sudden agility, the wolf sprung upwards off what appeared to be the feet alone, the heat of the flames barely singing his fur as he completely leapt over the dark lord and landed on his front paws, raising the hind paws in a swift kick to the noble's backside.

Knocked from the roof, Demitri vanished once again in a fade, this time reappearing in a downward spinning heel kick that knocked the wolf onto his back as he himself landed on his feet where the wolf had been and closed his eyes, "It would seem that even in your most primal form you have a grace about you. Impressive so far, but can you continue?"

With a flare of his evil eyes, Maximoff raised both his hands, balls of flames beginning to form in the palms.

* * *

Felicia had found herself roaming in a fog since she left the room that her hallway led into. That room was pleasant; a Vegas casino with countless lights and a host of accommodating gamblers and performers to interact with. She almost missed it now as she wandered aimlessly through the cool, smoky gray mist surrounding her.

Clinging her arms around herself, she wished she could go back there; with nothing but her fur for cover, the damp night air was biting at her already. It probably hurt more than it should have when she suddenly tripped over a large flat stone and fell harshly onto her face over what she recognized as grass.

Looking up with a pained groan, she saw her assailant for what it was; a typical tombstone. However, she hadn't been prepared for the name on it, a name that brought forth a frightened shriek from her lips – her own name.

Scrambling to her feet, she looked around, her lips trembling as she recognized a name or two on the various stones in the grass, all of them the same basic size and in three rows of three with one stone at the front. Names such as "Jon Talbain" and "Demitri Maximoff" rounded out the macabre list of possible denizens in this graveyard.

Behind them all sat an old, gnarled tree with a long branch that stretched out like a claw into darkness. Laying back on it in the pale moonlight was the ivory skinned man with the long lavender hair and strange eyes, his coat removed to reveal a pair of black jeans accented with a black leather codpiece held up with a black leather belt, Union Jack patch and spiked steel leg cuff on one leg.

The man held something over his chest which his fingers, covered with fingerless black gloves, strummed a slow acoustic melody resembling a sitar's lament on; a customized Schecter electric guitar with a built-in gimmick resembling a mechanical jaw filled with sharp teeth and a black-on-red paintjob.

His bony frame could not have looked more relaxed as he swiveled his head in the direction of the girl, smiling almost drunkenly and nodding a hello before strumming a final, echoing rift and sitting up to face her, "Lord Maximoff has my thanks; he couldn't have given me a more accommodating place to play, hehe."

Felicia shuddered, "You call this accommodating? You're crazier than I thought."

The minstrel hopped down from the tree with a soft thud, slinging the guitar over his shoulder as he casually strolled about the stones, "To each their own, kitkat – if you ask me, sanity be an illusion I'm better off without."

The catgirl was growing impatient now, and her tone betrayed a hint of annoyance, "Enough with the drama already – just who the hell are ya pal?"

His back to her when the words reached his ear, the man stopped as if frozen, and took the guitar into both hands as he turned around with a vicious grin, "Who the hell am I? I'm the devil, of course!" With a lightning fast leap, he was on the stone next to her in a crouch, his eyes giving off a feral glint of hellfire as he leered down at her perversely, "An' the first number goes out to you, little sista!"

Though her claws were out as she readied a mid-stance, Felicia was subconsciously backing away, "You don't scare me!"

Rearing back, the evil bard began to round his nimble fingers over the strings, a high rolling solo beginning to echo and distort, sounding as if it were coming from the clouds gathering ominously overhead. As the fog began to swirl around him on the stone, Felicia looked up to see the approaching storm produce a hail of lightning headed straight for them.

She ducked and covered as the lines of electric fire came hurtling towards her like thunderbolts, looking through her paws in surprise as it arced up past her and struck the horrible man with the guitar again and again, each punishing blow stripping flesh away violently as he raised his guitar in the flashing light, the solo becoming more of a grind now. It seemed to the frightened girl like a nightmare that wouldn't end, but the whole thing was only a few flashes in real-time.

And end it did. The clouds receded almost as quickly as the high-voltage lightshow faded away, the dim-lit darkness revealing what was left of the death rocker; a skeletal creature with ivory skin stood in the clothes he had been wearing, his spiked hair still smoking wildly in the fog as he lowered back into the crouch and dropped the guitar, eyes flaring like two red coals and his jaw dropping in a mind-bending smile, "Oh, don't I, Miss Kitty?" With that, a shrieking cackle escaped as he dived after her, his yellowed fingers extended like talons, "C'mere!"

Rolling sideways in a funny ball, Felicia surprised her ghoulish assassin when she suddenly produced her long, well-toned leg in a sharp kick to his jaw, springing like a ninja off one hand and landing in a readied crouch, "Please control yourself! We've barely met, after all!"

His grotesque head almost spun round from the impact, the creature took the bottom half of his face into his hands and put his neck back into place with a sharp crack, "Cheeky little thing, arencha? The name's Zabel; acquainted enough to fight now?"

The girl smirked and rose up into a fighting stance, her claws outstretched as she began to rhythmically move her arms and hips in small circles to show that she was ready and alert, "I'm Felicia, and all you had to do was ask!"

* * *

Aulbath had found his surroundings pleasing to behold, the scene resembling the lush rainforest he knew back home in the Amazon. Strolling jauntily along through the sweet-smelling trees, he had completely lost track of time and failed to notice that this place was forever locked in the noonday sun.

However, he did note that there was a high, deep brown mountain with a strange snowcap in the distance, and as he had decided upon that as the focal point for his walk, it grew steadily closer with every step, soon becoming large enough that he could make out how glaringly out of place it was.

Several feet from the mountain, the merman stopped and tilted his head with a puzzled expression, "Curious; what sort of creature could live in a place such as this?"

No sooner had the words escaped his lips than did his world come spinning around him as a white behemoth with overly large fangs and fierce red eyes came thundering out of a bush and slammed his body hard enough against the mountain to crack into it with a noticeable indent.

His eyes feeling like they would pop out of his head, Aulbath gasped for air as he fell forward onto his knees, looking up sharply with his keen eyes and wholly expecting another attack by now. Of course, he was taken completely by surprise when the attacker, a furry white sasquatch, sprang back and did a crazy little victory dance resembling a jog in place accompanied by flailing of the arms, "I got you good!"

A nearly horrified look came over the face of the noble sea creature, "You are my opponent? There must be some mistake; clearly you are a jester, not a fighter…"

The bigfoot crossed his long arms and laughed, his large furry belly shaking with the effort, "You're pretty stuck up for a guy I just knocked down!"

"Stuck up?", he was taken aback as he stood and crossed his webbed hands over one another, narrowed blue eyes shimmering above them, "I will acquaint you with up!"

With a tremendous shout that shook the trees, a literal wave of sound cascaded forth from the fish creature's mouth, the golden light catching on it with a shine as it slammed into the sasquatch with enough force to lift him off the ground and slam him face down back into it with a thud. Aulbath lowered his hands and gave his opponent a confident smile, "What do you think of my Aqua Spread?"

The yeti got up, dusting himself off with a humph, "I think that's the dumbest attack name I've ever heard. Try my Big Freezer on for size!"

"Big Freezer?", Aulbath was suppressing a grin, but it vanished to a look of surprise as the large ape inhaled until he was swelled up to twice his size, his cheeks red, and exhaled in a thick line of ice as big around as his oversized mouth, literally freezing the fish man fast against the side of the mountain.

Aulbath winced, "Ok, maybe he isn't a pushover after all. Time to get serious!"

* * *

"It is remarkable; despite the fact that it was built eons ago, this Demitri Maximoff has accomplished the impossible and reconstructed my tomb", Anakaris noted to himself as he stood in the golden chamber, arms crossed.

"Still, I digress", he continued his monologue, "While Maximoff is clearly worthy to kneel before me, he appears to have the illusion that he is the master and I his guest. This is a dangerous delusion that must be remedied."

"Fool, you seek to command the power of a demon?" Anakaris' attention was drawn upward to a being floating in the air high above him. It appeared to be the skin-headed man with the short but flowing white beard from before, his white breeches upheld by a golden sash that set off his sandals, bracers, and the gold trim on his black vest.

The pharaoh looked to the intruder with an unwarranted measure of disdain, "Interfere not with the Anakaris the Chosen; those who interfere with the will of God are burned alive for their impertinence."

His eyes burning gold like the sun, the strange man glared down at him, "I am Abadi Khan, Grand Caliph of The Four Elements, and I have no God." As a sound like the roar of a wildfire emitted from deep within his chest, a sphere of fire the size of a small car appeared above the djinni's head. Outstretching one arm and turning the palm up, he motioned forward, directing the ball of fire toward the mummy in a straight line, the flames skewing in that direction like snow blown to the will of the wind itself.

Anakaris uncrossed his arms, his jaw extending sharply downward to stretch his mouth to an impossible length as he inhaled, the fire rushing down his throat until he was bent backwards with the effort. With a single step toward the man in the air, he lifted himself up swiftly and threw his crowned head forward, returning the fire in an equally straight line at the creature that had opposed him.

Eyes burning a brighter blue than the sky on a cloudless sunny day, the genie clapped his hands together with a loud thud, a showering of tiny ice crystals exploding forth from his person, negating the flames like a makeshift sprinkler upon contact.

With a sudden wind spinning around his legs in a momentary whirl, Abadi Khan lowered from where he had hovered, his feet clicking down on the ground. He stared at his opponent piercingly, who in turn returned an imperious glare. The lines had been drawn. The first shots had been fired.

And the game was only beginning.


	7. Swords Crossed, Swords Dropped

DARKSTALKERS: THE NIGHT WARRIORS

Chapter 7: Swords Crossed, Swords Dropped

Fanfiction by Louis the Rogue

(Original story by Capcom Inc.)

It was all a blur to him now. The beast that was Jon Talbain had lost all sense of time, direction, and identity. There was only the fight now. Live to fight and fight to live; this was the closest to a plan he had. The majority of the fireballs, which came hurtling at him one after another from odd directions, missed by a long shot, the agile lycanthrope dancing around them on the rooftop as if he could predict where they we going to arrive as soon as they came into being. Every now and then, the shadowed silhouette of Demitri Maximoff would throw a more or less literal curveball, and every time he miscalculated the difficult dodge the beast felt the hellfire comets rip through his indigo fur with incredible ease, leaving behind a smoky trail and a burning sting that wouldn't quit, as if it were fed by a bone-chilling darkness in a vicious cycle. He couldn't keep this up forever.

For his part, Demitri was perplexed, and his mind was beginning to wander as he would absent-mindedly jaunt through the shadows into the most advantageous angle and throw a Chaos Flare at his opponent, the procedure second nature to him by now, "He moves with a precognition I have not seen for some time, and yet the beast has taken him over completely. Where have I seen such a creature before…"

* * *

The coal black mountains of the Kreutz homeland had begun to spew with volcanic liquid, the land barely capable of sustaining the combined rage of its' inhabitants. It was in this inhospitable locale, magma rivers flowing between the massive crags, that a tremendous battle took place.

The opponents were two nobles. One was from the proud house Maximoff, his angular young face with slicked brown hair in a confident smile atop a white shirt with cuffs that had an equally white neckerchief tied over that, the top tucked into tight black pants with calf-high boots, the ensemble divided in the middle with a red sash.

The other was a werewolf in a pair of form-fitting pants of a midnight blue hue with red stripes adoring the sides, his fur ever-shifting between warm and cool colors to mark him as a member of the house Kreutz. The nobles Demitri Maximoff and Baraba Kreutz had a gamble to settle, the prize was to boast of a victory in this final showdown, and in this land of noble warriors, victory was everything.

Baraba fell from the sky, a geyser of lava gushing up behind him as he landed on his feet in a crouch to create a dramatic effect. "The coward has gone into hiding", he growled to himself.

His ears perked as he felt a sudden chill, Demitri's shadowed form behind him, whispering a malicious taunt in his ear, "Let us end this game, Kreutz; compared to me you are at a clear disadvantage."

The Wolf Lord was not a creature of petty words; with a lightning fast turn, he struck out with his clawed hands in a grab, but the dark lord had faded back into the shadows from whence he had came. "Madness…", he told himself. And indeed it was; they had been fighting for days, only now reduced to this novice-like behavior.

A pretentious laugh rang out as Kreutz stood fast where he was, not moving a muscle save for his twitching, dog-like ears, "I am forever waiting at the corner of your eye. I can look into your weakness and exploit it. I will haunt you until you die, Baraba Kreutz. Do yourself a favor and throw your body to the flames!"

Baraba smiled on the inside, "So, you do make mistakes." Thrusting his elbow back, he heard an oomph as it came slamming into the rib of his opponent, who impacted himself on it at such a speed as to break his own bones.

"How?", Demitri bellowed with a rasp, blood trickling over the edge of his lip.

Kreutz closed his eyes, "You're too loud. Work on it and I'll see you tomorrow."

Demitri's pride would not allow him to forfeit. With the last of his strength, he reached out to grab what seemed like a shape, but fell onto his knees as his hands passed through the lingering trace of an illusion. As he braced himself up onto his elbows and looked into the flames, he could not help but smile, "Tomorrow then, my nemesis…"

* * *

A slash to his face brought him back to his senses; he had somehow let the beast get close enough to attack. A swift slap across the muzzle combined with a spinning fade put the creature in his place and gave him the room he needed to think.

Across the roof, Demitri held his cheek, surprised at how slowly the wound was healing. He smiled, a real smile, as he realized what this meant. Baraba, the only person he felt anything resembling respect for, had been lost to him. But if the noble had sired an heir, there was a chance to revive the old flame. This Jon Talbain was clearly not aware of the sleeping power within; he fought like a child. But he could be shown…

As the visage of the wolf appeared in a charging slash, eyes wild with fury, Demitri nimbly dodged and went on the assault, his hand lunging under the creature's snout as he swung his body around, locking hands in a strangle hold.

The beast felt a sudden numbing cold, as if the life within was being slowed to a halt, and his limbs grew heavy. Demitri's eyes flashed with a warm light, "You have a most unusual gift, Mr. Talbain, yet you are spoiled and pathetic…"

"He could be taught, you know", a woman's voice broke in. Stunned, Demitri looked up to see the blonde woman in the satin dress sat on the roof's edge, looking over her shoulder through her glasses at them.

In his momentary surprise, the nobleman let up on his grip a bit, and before he could remedy his mistake a white-furred foot came flying across his face hard enough to turn his head to the side, the wolf executing a beautiful spinning roundhouse kick and springing over the rooftop.

With a raged expression on his usually subtle face, Demitri glowered at the woman, "And who are you?" His tone was impatient at best, but even in his anger he was calculating enough to make sure he was not walking into a trap.

The woman gave a small, cultivated chuckle behind her beautiful hand, "Always with names and titles; I chafe at such things." She raised herself up into a mid-stance.

As a golden light shimmered from beneath her skin, the lady's form began to shift into that of a voluptuous, bat-winged woman with mint green hair and emerald eyes in her favorite black and red outfit. She smiled whimsically at the noble's reaction, noting it as surprised, but her tone was mostly business with a hint of condescension, "I am a lady of the house Aensland and the daughter of Archlord Belial. Will that suffice?"

Demitri could not have found a more suitable target for his sudden explosion of anger. He followed suit, assuming a stance of his own as his expression returned to the amused smile it had formerly attained, "Indeed."

Jon Talbain regained his mind for a moment as he landed knee-first on the hard ground below. He looked up at the building one last time, his keen eyes catching the strange woman on the roof with Demitri. He panted for breath, "Who was that woman. I've seen her before. It's not important now. I have to heal. I have to find the girl now!" Holding his shoulder, still black from the burn it had received, he limped down a street in search of something only he could smell.

* * *

Felicia twirled to the side as the ghoulish assassin's rising leg expelled an overly large chainsaw through the knobby heel, missing her face by so little space that she was seared across the eyebrow from the sparks.

She mentally checked that off as one of the many deadly devices this "Zabel" was capable of throwing out of his volatile body at will. "What are you, the appliance store from hell?", she screamed as she sprang back to avoid five knife blades coming out of the creature's hand.

The monster only giggled like a stoned teenager and jumped forward in pursuit, twisting his legs into a freakish weapon resembling four mace heads caught in a blurry whirlwind. The randomness of the technique caught the catgirl off-guard, one of the stone blocks slapping her hard enough across the face to send her reeling over a tombstone and onto her back, where she gasped for air.

The smoke seemed to part for Zabel as he rested a hand casually on the tombstone and struck the end of a large cigar alight as if it were a match on his jeans, lifting it into his vicious teeth that always seemed to be in a menacing smile and taking a puff. He raised his bony brows up and sighed, "That all babe? Ah well, fuck it. At least I've got the blood flowin', hehehe…" The shadows made his face seemed all the more horrible, like a hollowed skull twisted into a dementedly apathetic grin as he leaned a butcher knife in one hand over the stone further and further, closing in on her.

However, Felicia didn't just see Zabel, and Zabel didn't see a tall, muscle-bound figure in a green jacket with pale blue skin and spiky blonde hair standing silently behind him, still as a statue until his large, firm hand gripped the murderous criminal by his neck and yanked him back to meet his grimacing face. "Real men don't pick on little girls", the scarred, puggish face of the man growled through his teeth.

With a reflexive move, Zabel reached his arm around and jabbed the knife into the vigilante's eye, forcing the ugly man to release him as he gripped his face. He sneered as he landed on one hand and spun his legs around like a break-dancer, swiping his opponent off his feet in a trip, "Where'd you fall off the short bus?"

Victor Von Gerdenheim simply plucked the knife out, letting his face bleed a strange blue ichor down the cheek as he stood, "Short bus?"

Zabel shook his head sadly and lunged again with his claw-like hands, but was knocked off balance and sent careening face-first into the dirt as Felicia suddenly entered with a flying kick to his ribs, springing off her hands and landing beside her rescuer.

Victor looked down at her solemnly, "You should run."

Felicia resumed her readied stance and smiled confidently, "You run; now that we're even, I've got a fight to finish!"

Zabel slowly stood, the dust flying off him in a cloud, and turned around with a sick smile, "What's this? You two kids gonna gang up on old Zabel? Dun think so!" A trail of smoke rose up around his bony frame, concealing him; as it faded, he was nowhere to be seen.

Felicia looked around frantically, "No way! That was too easy!"

Victor only grunted in response as they stood helplessly in the fog.

Blasting up from the dirt behind them, Zabel screeched like a vulture as he latched onto Victor's back, tearing his claws into the giant's shoulders and throwing his head forward to savagely sink his teeth into his victim's neck muscles.

Victor cried out, his eyes wide, as he began to lumber around in a panic, trying to shake his attacker off.

Felicia looked pretty surprised herself as she watched the spectacle, "Hold still big guy! I can't get a clear shot!"

"Hit anywhere!" Victor screamed, Zabel's repeated biting beginning to strip the flesh from his bones now.

"Here goes", Felicia winced and leaned back on her elbows, throwing her legs up into a massive uppercut. Her aim couldn't have been better; the attack caught Zabel right under his bony backside and catapulted him into the air with a yell.

Victor sunk to his knees, gripping at his neck and shaking. Whatever that monster had done to him, it was more than a bite; he felt himself becoming stiff at the shoulders.

Felicia looked over at him pitifully, but froze when she saw Zabel's gaunt silhouette walking forward from the mist at a dramatically slow pace.

Zabel had something in his hand now that resembled an oversized buzz saw. As he lunged at her in a swing, Felicia reared back and brought her knee up, slamming it into his groin, but the ghoul just laughed again and belted her across the face with the blade, slicing her open just below the cheek.

She was on her back again, this time with his knobby knee at her throat to hold her down. Zabel raised his blade high in the air and smiled wickedly, "You're a sweet little piece o' meat, but I like my meat rare. You understand…"

A maddening howl rang out, seemingly from the distance, and Zabel looked up. To his surprise, two yellow eyes and a dog-like snout full of razor sharp teeth came bounding out of the fog with a flurry of blue and white fur attached…

* * *

A thunderous crackle rang through the trees. Aulbath sprang into the air above the sasquatch and stopped in midair just below the green canopy over him, stretching his arms out above his head in a crisscross at the wrists to give himself a more aerodynamic posture as he came down in a spinning dive, knocking the furry ape asunder with the balls of his feet.

Catching himself on his large feet, the bigfoot threw his massive fist forward and hammered the merman with a roar, sending his agile body skidding across the earth and crashing into a large tree.

Aulbath had barely had time to stand when he caught sight of the behemoth charging his way, leveling trees in his path. With a nimble spring, he was perched in a high branch a few feet away, watching as his opponent came to a stop and visored his hand above his eyes, looking around in confusion.

The regal sea creature could see farther now than when he had been on the ground, and he scouted the area while he still had the chance, "There must be a water source around here somewhere…"

Then he spotted it; a pristine lake of a sparkling blue coloration lay conveniently less than a mile ahead. The fish-man smiled thoughtfully, "Perfect."

The sasquatch looked up with a start as he heard a rustling above him. "Dumb animals", he muttered to himself, "I'm letting my nerves get to me."

Then, a few feet ahead, he caught something he couldn't pass off as a typical forest creature; a flash of green and gold scales in the shape of a sprinting man came bounding through the canopy in a short burst. He growled as he realized his folly, "Hey you! You can't run away! It's not that easy!"

With a red fluster on his furry face, the yeti came lumbering forward faster and faster, charging through the trees after the occasional glint of scales from within the trees, seemingly in a straight line but further and further away each time.

He was so focused on the sky above that he was taken completely by surprise when the trail suddenly ended, sending him splashing over a bank into the water. As he came to the surface sputtering, he saw the mercreature sitting cross-legged in the middle of the lake with a smile, waving casually at him. The sasquatch narrowed his beady little eyes and huffed through his furry jowls, "What's the big idea! You some kind've prankster?"

"Heh", Aulbath stood atop the water, barely making a ripple as he watched the bigfoot climbing noisily out of the water, "Our battle continues in a location more favorable to me. Are you ready?"

The sasquatch thumped his chest, "Born ready! Bring it!"

* * *

The mummy pharaoh and the noble genie stared each other down from across the room, each fighter assuming a fluid, readied stance as they began to pace around the crystal blue fountain in the center of the tomb, gazes locked.

"You can't win. I can't let you", Abadi Khan's temperament was even and assertive, his expression matching.

Anakaris was not so calm, "Of course I can! I can do anything!" With a sudden stop, the pharaoh pointed an accusing finger at the perceived infidel and muttered an echoing chant in a language lost to time.

Khan had no time to dodge as a large golden sarcophagus, not unlike those presiding in the tomb, came falling out of the sky to crush him. The hit would have been direct if the elemental lord had not assumed a smoky form and filtered out around it, solidifying on his feet in a poised stance atop the coffin. He outstretched a hand, his eyes burning with a malicious fire, "No more games!"

Without warning, the linen encasing the body of Anakaris burst into flames. The mummy king threw his head back and released an unearthly roar as the primordial fire began to consume him. From within, a blinding white light began to show through, and the flames began to die down, reducing to a harmless smoke as the remaining strips of parchment began to wind around, stretching to fill the exposed places on his body until he was good as new. Anakaris resumed a straighter pose, "A frail attempt."

Abadi furrowed his sharp brows in thought, "He possesses the ability to regenerate himself and is thus oblivious to my attacks. My attacks…" He smiled to himself, a plan formulating, and leapt from the sarcophagus to the ground, kneeling, "I admit I was wrong. I surrender to you, oh Great Pharaoh. Punish me as you will."

His confidence swelling, the undead inhaled, his eyes glowing a bright red, "The punishment for insolence is death, but you will die a penitent man and see some reward in the next life." As he exhaled, a strange dust escaped his mouth, rolling in a controlled ball toward the kneeling Khan.

However, as the dust was nearly upon him, the djinn looked up with a shining white glow to his eyes and gave a swift exhale of his own, turning the wind to his favor and backfiring the dust at the pharaoh. In a flash of smoke, all that was left in the mummy's place was a large golden tablet with a hieroglyphic image on it resembling a man kneeling and declaring in more hieroglyphics, "Pride goeth before the fall."

Pointing his hand toward the tablet, Abadi Khan's eyes again burned with fire, the tablet beginning to melt into a puddle before him, "There. You are immortalized as gold that will remain gold in the eons to come. Be careful what you wish for."

With a turn, he exited the tomb through the sliding door he had used to enter it. Of course, he could not have known that the pharaoh's technique was a temporary one. It didn't matter. By the time Anakaris was himself again, his opponent would be long gone.

As he drifted there, his mind swimming along with the rest of him in that golden ooze, Anakaris the Chosen dwelled on his defeat, "Clearly, I am defeated. But how? I should have been ready. I have failed to champion my people. I must not repeat this mistake; I must know, who is Abadi Khan…?"


	8. Rivals

DARKSTALKERS: THE NIGHT WARRIORS

Chapter 8: Rivals

Fanfiction by Louis the Rogue

(Original story by Capcom Inc.)

As the piercing, dog-like eyes of the werewolf met his own, Zabel sprang upward, saw ready, his kill-or-be-killed survival mechanism suddenly kicking in. Felicia watched in mild disbelief as both the figures grappled each other at the shoulders in mid-air, a flash of sheet lightning perfectly framing the iconic image of the duel to come.

Like birds of prey, neither let up, even as they fell spinning to the ground below with an echoing thud. Each leaping back from the fall and catching their balance, the two warriors circled in a single pace and charged one another, a whoosh, a buzz, and a clang ending in sparks as the saw blade tangled in the iron chains of a weapon the challenger had seemingly pulled from nowhere; a nunchaku with oak grip handles.

Pulling back, the wolf ripped the saw from the assassin's hand and growled, "That the best you got? Come on! I'll kill you!"

"Kill?", Zabel twisted himself around backwards at the waist, jumped, and threw his legs around to complete a 360 degree rotation at the backbone, one foot releasing a blade through the heel that swiped across the wolf's face hard enough to turn his head, giving the death rocker the time he needed to complete an awkward crouch landed on one foot, then spring forward to attack with a knife-fingered hand, "Speakin' my language!"

In a move too fast to be caught by the human eye, the wolf grabbed Zabel at the wrist, hoisting him haplessly into the air and opened his lupine eyes, blood streaming down from hisshredded brow and spilling over one of them as he sliced the nails of his free arm down a tombstone, making enough sparks to create cinders on the grass and the sound of nails on glass, "How about _maim_?"

Zabel's expression turned from one of menace to one of horror, followed by a snake-like hiss and a frantic flurry of blows from his hands, feet, and teeth, too many weapons to count flying from his limbs in a horrific attack that eventually forced a release and retreat to so many meters away on the part of the werewolf.

Thoroughly cut up from nose to tail, the werewolf in the indigo trousers stood panting, taken completely off-guard when the maniac leapt at him and tackled him to the ground, pinning his weakened body down by the neck. With a scream of unbound rage, Zabel expelled a knife from his wrist, gripped it at the handle, and proceeded to slice at the face of his personified threat over and over again, turning the wolf's head from one side to the other with each horrific attack.

Felicia watched in horror as the barbaric beating continued, glancing over to the injured Victor now and again, who had seemingly lost consciousness from the venomous poison that had frozen his muscles solid under the old tree where he laid in a slump.

Still screaming at the top of his lungs, Zabel continued his vicious assault. The wolf's vision had long since gone blurry, and in this near death experience his memories began to flash before him. He recognized himself as Jon Talbain, in brief recollections at first, and then in stronger impulses. The high moon above kept his transformation intact, but the wolf was clearly Jon Talbain now.

As luck would have it, Jon Talbain knew something the wolf didn't. Something he was taught long ago about the power inside him. The "dark force" in his body was like a candle. If given the right sort of fuel, this candle could grow into a raging fire. His eyes snapped open, wide open, as he realized what that fuel was.

Zabel drew up his knife to swing again, but was caught by the arm by a furry white claw, drenched in blood. As the fingers began to tighten their grip, forcing the knife out of his hand, Zabel had to look twice to see if the moonlight was playing tricks on him. He could swear that a white light was shining from within the creature's body, giving it a subtle glow.

In his distraction, Zabel was the one to be caught unprepared as a knee rose up, slamming him in his barely protected back hard enough to propel him off of his victim, who swung his bloody fist around, the glow Zabel had sworn he perceived intensifying at the knuckles and belting the ghoul hard enough under the jaw to raise his body anotherthree feet sending it crashing to the ground with a groan afterward.

Jon Talbain stood, the smell of his own sweat and blood so strong it was making him nauseous. He tried his best to get into a ready stance, but his arms would barely move.

Zabel shook convulsively as he stood, a hollow and distant laughter escaping from somewhere in his throat, "Damn, I think ya broke my jaw. Yep, that one was a killer, but whadda ya know, I'm not dead yet! Ain't that a bitch?"

Felicia's eyes narrowed as the psychotic skeleton began to stride toward the weaving Tablain, then turned to Victor with a sigh, "This guy's a nightmare. That wolf's out there getting the life beat out of him, and we can't even help…"

"Yes… we… can…", Victor sputtered, the strange blue liquid that passed for blood flowing out of his neck in a pool.

"Huh?", Felicia blinked, "You can still talk?"

"Not important", Victor rumbled, "My fluids. They're flammable. You saw; he's afraid of fire. Take my fluids. Make them count…" His eyes rolling back, the artificial giant grew limp, his muscles relaxing completely now.

Walking forward, the catgirl knelt and cradled Victor's head in her arms, biting her lip as she looked at the wound on his neck, "Aww man, I hope it does count big guy…"

On his end of the battlefield, Talbain was using every ounce of his second wind just to stand as attack after attack came with a machete in the hands of the flyby Zabel, who cackled gleefully at every springing lunge, slicing the wolf to shreds.

As it was bound to, Talbain's strength finally ran out, his body crumpling to the ground under the weight of his broken knees. Zabel leapt in for the kill, but suddenly went astray as a shape pounced out of the darkness and tackled him onto his face.

Zabel turned his head around only to be sprayed in the face by a bitter-tasting fluid, then the swipe of a claw, the glare of two blue eyes, and a flurry of sparks. Then everything blurred as the rising of flames overcame his vision.

Felicia leapt back from the monstrous minstrel, landing beside Talbain as the ghoul stood up and screamed in agony, his face alight with roaring flames that quickly began to consume him whole, tearing what little flesh there was from the bones until they too began to char away and become as smoke in the fire. As his figure disappeared in the flames, a dark cloud fell over the moon, blocking its' light.

Talbain draped his arm around the girl, involuntarily beginning to resume the form of the man he was before, and winced, "We better get out of here."

Felicia looked over to the figure under the tree, a note of sympathy reflecting in her eyes, "Not without him…"

* * *

The sasquatch stood ready, the determined stare in his beady red eyes meeting an equal look in the sparkling blue eyes of his opponent on the water. He had been duped; that was obvious now. As the water in the lake itself began to rise up, snaking in multiple funnels around the fish-man, the yeti involuntarily tensed his muscles and raised his large fists, hoping he was prepared for whatever was about to hit him.

As he raised his arms and closed his eyes, willing the water to propel him like a spinning top into the air, Aulbath could feel a disturbance in the wild, gnawing at his concentration, but he attributed it to the fierce battles that must have been taking place elsewhere in this bizarre spectacle of a bout. Lowering his head, he opened his eyes, an intimidating aura of mystical blue energy radiating from them, and outstretched a webbed hand to release his attack.

However, he paused momentarily, taken completely aback when the bigfoot boldly sprang upward in his direction, fist outstretched. He couldn't move; a sudden chill behind him had robbed him of that ability. The noble merman watched in horror as his opponent came screaming toward him… and then beside him, slamming his massive fist into something not seen with a metallic clang.

His limbs once again obeying him, Aulbath turned on his heel, but lost control over his technique. As he fell with the water, he saw not one but two shapes in the air falling into the lake with him. And then there was the splash.

Moments later, a half-drowned sasquatch came bobbing out of the water with a loud splash, hauled onto the shore by the green-scaled merman he had just been fighting. Pulling himself onto his knees and gasping for air, the sasquatch sputtered water for a bit.

Aulbath stared intensely at the lake, feeling incredibly paranoid. When he heard the sputtering behind him stop, he spoke, "What was that thing…?"

The sasquatch stood behind him, still dripping from his unpleasant dip in the lake, and glared, "Rude as a human, that's what it is; the jerk just interrupted our match!"

Both of the bestial fighters watched as something came rising out of the water slowly, dramatically, as if it was simply levitating without so much as an effort. The crimson armor covering it looked rusty, but the shine of the gold trimming on the plates told a different story. The armor seemed to rest over an ethereal shape of a smoky hue, with hateful red eyes burning just under the rim of the helmet. The figure took a readied stance, bringing a two-finger hand gesture to its' forehead with one arm, and raising its' deadly katana with the other, then took off across the lake as if it were solid ground. Both of the witnesses swore they heard a sadistic laughter.

Aulbath smiled confidently as he took a fluid stance, the sasquatch behind putting up his fists to box again, "What do you say we teach him a lesson then, Furry One?"

The sasquatch's smirk was no less confident, "Let's do, Scales."

As the evil samurai came skidding to a stop at the bank, he turned on a heel and swung his katana point blank at Aulbath's face, or would have if he hadn't been lifted by the waist from behind by two large hands, giving the merman the time he needed to executing a backbend dodge and spring off his hands to kick the armored figure upside the helmet, knocking it from the neck.

Without warning, the armor sprang apart as if detonated from within, seemingly vaporizing the spirit inside. As the various pieces scattered around the area, Aulbath and the sasquatch covered their faces and tensed with anticipation.

"He's a slippery one", the yeti warned, his current ally nodding slowly in response to the comment, his eyes glued to the bizarre breastplate at his feet.

As quickly as it had scattered, the armor drew itself to the breastplate and spun upward, reforming into the ghostly samurai and slashing the merman across the chest with alarming speed. With an agonized cry, Aulbath fell.

The sasquatch was aghast at first, then enraged, his expression quickly shifting to match his mood as he came thundering forward at the demonic entity, grappled him around the shoulders, and swung him around as if no more than a discus, launching him into the trees with a mighty roar.

"You dishonorable wretch! Get out here and fight!", the fuming ape bellowed as he stood at the edge of the bank where line after line of trees began to form a forest.

A disturbing laugh rang through the trees, and the sasquatch shivered as he saw the armored spirit, now surrounded by an ethereal blue glow, come walking calmly and boldly out as commanded, sword to his side. The horrible face in the helmet smiled diabolically as he came closer and closer, "You appeal to the code for a handicap? A foolish mistake! I am Bishamon, the Evil Samurai. My honor was forfeit long ago."

"Enough! Fight me!", the sasquatch roared, thrusting his hands out to grab the fallen samurai at the shoulders again, but gritted his teeth in frustration as Bishamon's hands not only met the palms of his own, but held him back.

Their muscles tensing with the effort, both warriors maintained the stalemate, eyes locked in a fierce glower as each tried to intimidate the other.

As such, banter was begun, and the bigfoot made the first bid, "So you're a samurai, huh? Where's your lord then?"

"I am as a Ronin; my lord is dead", Bishamon returned with a vicious smile.

"I take it you killed him yourself", the yeti remarked with a cynical grin.

"The armor lusts for blood", the evil warrior gritted out, "I am the instrument of this lust; the Bather of Hannya, the Wielder of Kien, the Red Reap-?"

Bishamon paused with a start as his last victim thus far, the merman he had just struck down, stood behind his companion unscathed, that mystical energy burning in his eyes again. Those eyes were so focused, so pure in intent; it hurt the samurai to stare at them, and he had to look away. He even tried to resist the voice echoing in his head, chanting some incantation he could not identify.

But it was too late. The sasquatch leapt away and watched in awe as a greenish-gold flickering began to circle on the wind, summoned by the will of nature itself as the cry of every animal imaginable began to swim through the mind of the dark warrior, forcing him to his knees as he too cried out; a scream of agony.

The wind was forming something now; it was like a bubble. As the wind began to solidify into a translucent sphere, Bishamon hacked at it with the last of his strength, but to no avail; already it had begun to lift him off the ground like a caged animal. Aulbath lowered his hand. The spell was complete.

The bigfoot looked up at the imprisoned Bishamon in astonishment, "He's stuck there!"

Aulbath nodded, "And there he shall remain as long as there is nature here to hold him in check. It is the fate of those who upset the natural order to be entrapped by it."

As the merman turned to leave, the sasquatch gulped and shouted after him, "Hey! We didn't finish our battle bud! You owe me a rematch!"

The fish man turned and smiled, "You choose the place next time. I'll find you."

The sasquatch smiled back, "Alright then, but don't expect me to go easy on you next time. By the way skinny, for the record, what's your name?"

The sea creature gave a good-natured laugh, "Aulbath, and yours tubby?"

The bigfoot walked up and thumped his own chest again, "Quatos."

Aulbath nodded, "Quatos then… What do you mean 'easy'? You could barely keep up with the likes of me!"

Quatos threw an arm around his newfound comrade as they walked off into the forest together, "Well that's because I'm not in my element; just wait till next time!"

* * *

As Lord Maximoff watched the woman on the roof across from him, he could not help but tense with pleasure while readying himself to fight; she was flawless of figure, and the daughter of Belial no less. Her blood would be the sweetest taste in over one hundred years, and the thought alone made his mind swim.

Morrigan must have sensed this, because she relaxed her posture and crossed her arms, tilting her head with an amused smile, "This place… it doesn't seem fitting for the battle of battles, don't you agree?"

With a hearty laugh that shook his shoulders, Demitri Maximoff gave a simple gesture of his hand, the scenery around them burning away to reveal a backdrop behind it identical to the chandelier-lit ballroom of the evening before. The dark lord threw his cape behind him and offered a hand, assuming his stance, "May I have the first dance?"

A playful glint in her eyes and a charming smile on her face, Morrigan Aensland made a mock curtsy and assumed a stance of her own, "Amuse me, Lord Maximoff, and we can dance the night away…"


	9. First Dance

DARKSTALKERS: THE NIGHT WARRIORS

Chapter 9: First Dance

Fanfiction by Louis the Rogue

(Original story by Capcom Inc.)

The great chandelier above cast a more surreal light about the room now, the maids and menservants gathered about on the balcony in their tuxedoes and gowns, each of them now wearing an off-white, skull-shaped mask as they watched in silence, their bodies unmoving as if in a trance.

The tiled marble floor below echoed with a mechanical shriek as the bat-like wings at the hips of Morrigan Aensland assumed a morphic consistency and shifted into something akin to jet-like gills that catapulted her forward eagerly with a trail of fire and smoke.

Though just as eager, Demitri remained on guard, a hand behind his own right hip glowing at the palm with a subtle red light until the woman came within point blank range, at which point he took a step back and released his infamous hellfire projectile, aiming for her lungs.

"Trying to take my breath away?", Morrigan taunted with a dreamy smile as she readjusted her center of gravity to her chin and shifted her weight up from the collarbone down to narrowly avoid the blast. After this, she promptly reassigned this center to her shoulder and rolled the rest of her body around it to bring a painful knee to the jaw of the unprepared Demitri, turning his head upward at the neck in a mild uppercut before she released and flew back with a repeat of her jet-gill technique, landing a few feet away and resuming her disarmingly casual stance.

It was not a moment too soon; in no more time than it had taken her to make a brief distance between them, Demitri had closed the gap in a flying charge, his cape waving wildly behind him and his eyes burning with a fire vicious enough to match his smile as he backhanded the lady across the face, followed with a crouch to one knee and a spinning trip, and vanished in a fog only to reappear in a spiraling downward kick aimed for the very head he had just turned.

Once again, Morrigan would catch him off guard. Even as she recoiled from the force of his knuckles at her cheek, she was able to readjust her center of gravity at the small of her back and acrobatically throw her legs up in a flying kick to counter his own. The stalemate rebounded them both several feet away from the center of the room where they had been, and they resumed their stances respectively.

"You fight dirty", Morrigan's expressed a slight frown, then smiled with that usual glint in her eyes, "But at least you're not boring."

Demitri sprang off his heels, both palms alight with his fireballs, "You'll find that I have plenty of surprises in store!"

"Oh?", Morrigan rebuffed with a listless expression as she raced upward, over, and behind him with alarming speed, leaving a quickly fading jetstream in her wake, and crossed her arms over her heart. Her image became hazy and split like a mirror divided into the resolidification of two identical copies of herself, each of which sent a sideways punch with their outer arm in symmetry, catching Demitri at both sides of his face as he whirled around in the meantime. The twins followed with an equally symmetrical knee to his ribs, the force of the attacks doubling him over for only a moment in midair, which was all the time she needed to restore herself into one being in the same manner and jackhammer the nobleman at the back of the neck with both fists entwined, sending him crashing into the floor below with an echoing thud.

Though she could have pursued, Morrigan instead hovered horizontally to her right with the speed of a small cloud on a sunny day, her eyes fixed on Demitri as he rose to his feet, meeting her disappointed gaze with a brooding scowl.

Noting her gesture, Demitri's expression became an arrogant sneer, "You show me charity on the false pretense that I am in need of it, and that is your weakness; the very weakness of your father on that fateful day. It is inexcusable."

Morrigan's expression now concealed a fiery glare, and her formerly complacent expression was obviously agitated, "As I recall, Lord Demitri, my father defeated you with but a low-powered warning shot, and you are barely sport for me."

"I see", Demitri chuckled with the satisfaction that he had gotten under her skin, his body assuming a fiery halo as it enlarged and contorted into the shape of a fiendish, humanoid bat creature with large, leathery wings that were as gray as the short fur about the muscular body, overly large fangs akin to those of a bestial vampire, and feral red eyes, "Then I shall up the ante if only to your pleasure!"

As the room about them began to tremble with an awesome and horrible power that had been previously been encaged in the dark lord's own body, Morrigan placed curled hand under her chin and smiled curiously. "So, that's his true form", she thought to herself, "It's about time he got serious."

Even as she finished her thought, a large ball of roiling fire burst into existence just above her, the monstrous Demitri visible in the flames though partially concealed by them. Morrigan's eyes widened as she turned with a start to see that perilous smile of his and felt two strong arms wrap around her in a frighteningly firm hold. His voice seemed to resonate on a deeper level than it had as he leaned in to whisper in her ear and tightened his grip to make it all the more inescapable, "Our foreplay is at an end; it is time to commit yourself, Milady."

Morrigan closed her eyes and breathed a heavy sigh; his grip was not the only thing weakening her as she leaned forward to return the whisper in his own pointed ear, "That wasn't just innuendo, was it Demitri? Whatever passion holds you, I will not be bound." As Demitri's expression grew a bit more thoughtful, she threw her head back, slamming it forward into his own and thrust her knee up sharply, catching him between the legs in an area she knew would be more sensible at this point.

With a shrieking cry, Demitri was forced release his hold and give Morrigan the time she needed to make a kicking dash off his chest with her stiletto heels, hovering a few meters away and above, now between him and the chandelier. Her gaze upon him as he rose from a stiff hunch to his full height was no longer passive and playful; a heated bloodlust had taken its' place, and as he stared back, she knew it was returned.

* * *

The quake had subsided almost as quickly as it had arisen, but it could be felt even in the cemetery room of the labyrinth, where Jon Talbain lay bloody and broken against Felicia, the two of them sitting beside the lifeless Victor under the old tree. The darkness was nearly consuming save for the dim light of the concealed moon, and a fierce, bitter wind howled through the area to blow away the fog, seemingly generated from the large, charred circle in the grass where Zabel had been moments before.

He was gone now; the werewolf could no longer pick up his foul scent in the area, but his tension mounted all the same with an ever-increasing dread that the force emitting that ponderous aura of evil the pulsed through his nerves in waves was far deadlier. He couldn't put his finger on why, but he knew who it was on a subconscious level, his inner beast remembering such a feeling from when it had battled him before.

Felicia must have sensed something too, she must have felt that horrible dread that swelled outward from the distant battle between the feuding nobles, because she clung tighter around him as she shouted over the wind, "It's awful Jon. You were right. This isn't a funhouse, it's a slaughterhouse."

Even in his critical condition, Talbain couldn't resist a wry grin, "Took you long enough to figure it out… speaking of out, I think I'm lost in this place; you?"

"I think I took a wrong turn at Albuquerque", Felicia gave him a bittersweet smile, trying desperately to help lighten the mood.

Talbain actually grinned with a "heh", just to humor her, and looked over to Victor with a pained groan, "No sense in asking you, I guess, but for what it's worth, we gave it a damn good run eh?"

"Perhaps I can be of assistance", an articulate voice called from just beyond the fog at the edge of the graves.

Talbain's nostrils flared briefly as he looked to two silhouettes, one tall and slender, the other shorter and incredibly stout, "I thought I smelled something fishy."

Felicia stood with a glare as the fish-man and sasquatch approached, readying a stance, "Look guys, I know the tournament's still on, but these two can't fight now."

Quatos shrugged, "Who said we were looking for a fight?"

Aulbath crossed his arms and grinned mischievously, "Why, she did! I think she's looking at you funny there Tubs; you better watch out for her deadly mew."

"Why, you son of a b-", Felicia reached back to give the mouthy merman a good swipe across the face but felt a hand grab her own with just enough strength to restrain her. She looked back to the ailing Jon and blinked incredulously.

Talbain looked half dead now himself, and spoke softly, "These guys aren't our enemies or they would have attacked us already. Let's not provoke them."

Felicia rolled her eyes and turned her back with an indignant posture, arms crossed and tail squared, "Whatever."

As Quatos threw Victor limply over his massive shoulders, Aulbath leaned down to get a steady arm around Talbain under his shoulders and grinned at Felicia standing there, "Is she always this friendly?"

Talbain stood with the help to the best of his ability, heavily leaning against the aquatic humanoid for support, his eyes distant and his smile boyish, "Are you always a dick?"

Aulbath couldn't suppress a laugh, "You have balls, chiding your ride like that."

Talbain winced, biting his lip in pain, "I'll take your word for it; I can't feel them right now."

They both laughed as they headed back into the fog after Felicia and the Victor-burdened Sasquatch. For whatever reason, they were not afraid to wander; their sense of direction seemed right on, although they had previously felt utterly lost. Of course, they could not have known that a subtle power was calming their nerves and keening their senses: a bald, bearded man smiling kindly from where he meditated, hidden and alone in the haze.

Abadi Khan looked up from his trance and watched after them thoughtfully, "They will live long, and boldly all the same; such is their fondest wish."

* * *

The dueling figures flew at each other in a circling pass from across the ballroom, as if hawks in flight. The demonic Demitri's large claws glowed intensely with a blood red halo, while that around the beautiful hands of Morrigan was a golden hue. As the passed, each turned at the waist and interlocked their fingers with those of the other, the dark power in their bodies beginning to spring outward in a flurry of sparks around the room.

Both warriors glared into each others' eyes with an intensity that was a weapon in and of itself. Each maintained the hand lock with a ferocity that threatened to rip each other apart, their bodies propelled toward one another by their own force of will like magnets. They were no longer merely eager to battle; they were bent on it.

As their foreheads touched together, eyes locked, Demitri broadened his smile and tensed, his muscles bolstering themselves and becoming more defined as his hands began to slowly push back those of his opponent.

Morrigan gritted her teeth, her agile body having silent spasms as she tensed every muscle within to maintain the hold, her flawless features becoming less like Aphrodite and more like Athena with the attempt.

She had never felt anything like this. This was the exhilaration she had sought from the day of her birth; that seemed like an eternity to her now. She couldn't push him back any further, he was getting stronger as she resisted, and this excited her to no end. She knew now that this duel was her birthright, and perhaps that is why she barely resisted when the domineering lord lunged his head forward and sunk his teeth deep into her neck, waiting patiently until a steady trickle of blood began to flow from the wound before he withdrew them.

"Yes", she thought to herself, "This is the greatest joy there is. This is what it means to be alive. The stronger he is, the stronger he will make me. So this is a challenge…"

With a euphoric smile, the body of Morrigan Aensland began to take on a blinding glow as she released Demitri's hands and gripped tightly around his shoulders, a shrieking cackle cascading from her lips.

Demitri struggled to return the grapple, but could not even move his arms. The body of the demon began to shift back into his more humane form involuntarily, and his eyes widened in absolute terror as his limbs began to grow limp. For the first time in his life, he experienced a weakness beyond humility and a shame beyond defeat. What he felt now was to be truly, inescapably, vulnerable. His eyes closed slowly as he submitted, against his will, and fell against her with a bitter cry of agony.

When she felt no more resistance, Morrigan came to her senses and released, her rival dropping unconsciously to the ground with where he laid on his back and convulsed, unable to do anything else.

Lowering herself, Morrigan's heels touched the floor with an echoing click. She stared longingly in the direction of the dark lord and reached up to run a hand across the wound on her neck. "I could kill him now", the statement was more of a realization that anything, "But I would only be killing myself; we are a part of each other now. Two halves of an enigma lost on lesser creatures."

She turned toward the room's main exit, but looked back over her shoulder, "And so I take my leave, Lord Demitri. If you dream in that place where you've gone, dream of our next dance." She couldn't help but smile, "Dream that it's soon."

With the genuine laugh of a schoolgirl, she waltzed with herself down the corridor and out of sight, leaving the slumbering Demitri where he laid.


	10. Resolutions

DARKSTALKERS: THE NIGHT WARRIORS

Chapter 10: Resolutions

Fanfiction by Louis the Rogue

(Original story by Capcom Inc.)

The old stone hospital had been abandoned for over a century, its' crumbling walls supposedly left in peace. However, it had been in this rainy mountain village that a sleeping giant had been awakened. Its' dark walls echoed with the swirl of harsh and bitter winds as lightning flashed above.

In the old, abandoned laboratory, upon a stone slab, lay the body of Victor Von Gerdenheim, his father's only "son". Unfortunately, Schloss Von Gerdenheim had not lived to see his greatest achievement. The spirit of the dead professor yet remained in these halls, and perhaps he watched now, alongside Emily, Victor's child-like counterpart, and four strangers, a silver-haired man with a brown leather jacket, a beautiful young catgirl with optimistic eyes, a noble merman with green and gold scales, and a mighty white-furred sasquatch, as they somberly stood vigil around the form.

Emily looked to them with her sad blue eyes and nodded slowly, "It is time now. The storm is overhead. Please, everyone, stand back from the immediate vicinity of the Strike Zone."

As the others moved away, Emily began to wind the wooden crank of the great steel ray gun-like machine above, turning the huge metal gears with amazing arm strength. She had put all the attachments in place; now it was all up to the rod high above to attract the lightning they would need.

Like it had so many times before, the machine worked. A flurry of electricity arced down the wires of the machine in an impressive lightshow, striking the still body strapped to the slab with black chords over and over.

Emily glanced over to what appeared to be a pressure gauge on the wall beside her and shouted to the others, "It's not enough!" Her voice was frantic.

Felicia bit her lip, tears welling up in her eyes; it didn't seem right. She knew life wasn't fair, but just this once, after all he had done, this one deserved to live.

The others must have been thinking the same thing. Jon looked to Aulbath, who looked to Quatos, and all three nodded in unison, shielding their eyes as they stepped forward.

Emily blinked as the large silhouette of the sasquatch came through the light and grabbed the crank, turning it with all the force in his mighty arms to keep the electricity flowing.

Meanwhile, Talbain placed a hand on Aulbath's shoulder and closed his eyes. As both their forms began to glow faintly with a mystical white light, Aulbath's eyes snapped wide open. He had never felt this invigorated in his entire life! With one hand raised to the sky, and the other pointed toward the sleeping giant, the sea guardian let out a tremendous, echoing shout.

Felicia and Emily watched in amazement as the rain itself began to twist downward toward Aulbath's high hand like a miniature waterspout, twisting around him like an elemental snake, and channeling through his other hand in a horizontal line that splashed over Victor like a fire hose, sparks flying everywhere.

Emily glanced up at the gauge with a mixture of fear and hope in her eyes, and smiled like the little girl she appeared to be, "It's working! It's working!"

Felicia covered her eyes as the intense light enveloped them all, and in a crackle of thunder, the room went dark.

The darkness lasted only a second, replaced afterwards by an electric blue light emitting from a tall, muscular body that had just sat up on the slab. As she uncovered her eyes, Felicia could only smile.

* * *

Some time later, two figures sat alone on a metal bench at a bus stop in the rain. Felicia was decidedly dressed for once in a paper-brown raincoat, and her companion still wore the brown leather jacket, black leather boots, and blue jeans so common to his appearance.

"Heading back to England I imagine?", she said to her friend.

As he broke away from his thoughts of the training ahead, Jon Talbain nodded and crossed his arms behind his head, enjoying the cool drizzle as it gently beat down on his face, "So, what next for you Miss Felicia?"

Felicia leaned an elbow on the head of the bench and looked over to him, the resolute sparkle in her eyes offsetting her optimistic smile, "Heading back to the East Coast. Broadway maybe."

Talbain gave an amused smile to that, "Broadway?"

Felicia just nodded with that child-like smile, "Uh huh! Everything that's happened, I think it's all trying to tell me something."

"Like what?"

Felicia's optimism was unwavering as she spoke, "Like that humans need a serious wake-up call. They need to see we're not all bad. Us "darkstalkers". Maybe then they can start to understand why we have just as much right to be here as they do."

"Maybe", he said pensively, "But that doesn't answer my question. Why Broadway?"

Felicia looked on him with her eyes full of hope, "Because you've taught me something, Mr. Talbain. If I set my mind to it, there's nothing I can't do. I want to sing; it's my big dream in life. Rose always said I could, but I was too busy to seriously think about it. Now, I… well, there's nothing binding me down now…"

Talbain averted his eyes, "I'm sorry."

She just flashed him another grin, and placed a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, "Don't be sorry. I'm not. She's happier now. By the way, I have told you what I'll call my first musical. When I'm famous, I mean."

He looked back to her, "Oh? And what will you call it?"

She looked into his eyes and smiled warmly, "The Ballad of Jon Talbain."

He couldn't think of an answer for that; he just smiled right back.

* * *

As she awakened in the blackness, Marionette felt her wooden body compelled forward by a dark power. She knew immediately what it meant as Master Ozomu's voice drifted through her mind, and a half smile crept over her usually subtle face. Zarock had failed; defeated by a mere darkstalker, and a half-human at that.

The darkness gave way to a strange stone room that would have been just as black if not lit by high pillars and a long carpet, all glowing with an electric violet hue. Seated on the large stone throne at the end of the rug was Ozomu, his green cloak substituted for a violet one, eyes glowing with a dim red light that sought her out.

As she knelt down before her owner, the puppet felt his large, leathery hand brush through her hair and down the side of her face before he spoke, "It occurs that we may have underestimated the darkstalkers of the Human World. Especially Maximoff; surprisingly, his power has grown in the past century rather than diminishing. Clearly, Zabel Zarock was not up to the task of destroying them…"

"Clearly not up to the task", she echoed cheerfully.

"That is why I have decided to intensify his training regiment."

"Intensify his training?"

"Yes. His training I leave to you. Only you can teach him to master the more subtle points of assassination. You are dismissed."

"Yes, Milord…"

As she turned and left the room, descending a long spiral staircase into the darkness beyond, Marionette was filled with a horrible rage. If she had failed him, her fate would have been sealed! Why was this upstart so special? She entered into a large, dark room filled with cages, their metallic sheen barely flickering in the dim light or lack thereof.

At the corner of one, she found him. Curled up into a ball, his yellowish claws gripping tightly at his spiked violet hair, was Zabel Zarock. The pitiful creature was muttering incoherently until his senses made out a presence in the room, "Villian? Is that you I hear? Come to burn me alive, have you! I'll kill you!"

Marionette was silent, unmoved as she saw the misshapen figure dive at her with a saw and lop off a large chunk of her wooden face, which reshaped itself into a normal form in seconds.

Zabel felt no exhilaration at this stage, only emptiness, and didn't bother to continue the pursuit. He simply lay there on his face as Marionette spun round and gripped him up by his collar, bringing his face to her own, "Whatever happened to you on Earth, you're going to prefer it by the time I'm through with you. From this point on, you are officially my bitch!"

A sinister, nigh sadistic smile crept over her pitiless countenance.

* * *

Demitri sat alone on his spike-headed throne, the darkness having fully consumed the world around. Now and again, a dim gray shone over him as the pale moonlight filtered in, highlighting his chiseled face in mild contrast to the darkness.

His expression was a brooding one as the memories came flooding back to him, "Daughter of Aensland… I know not even your name… Why do you fascinate me so?"

With a growl, he stood and walked to the edge of the room, looking out to the cloudy night above. His lips trembled with a cross between furious passion and absolute conviction as he spoke, "Somewhere up there, you are waiting for me. Beckoning me to follow you toward my destiny. Our destiny. I will conquer them all, waving the bloody banner that shall entwine our bodies together. Hear me now, I will have you."

* * *

In a desolate gray wasteland, on a craggy hill where no life could flourish, laid an old, abandoned building resembling a crumbled black stone cathedral. At the gates stood two men in dark monk's robes, their hoods concealing their faces.

Another man, larger but also in robe, stood in front of the decadent stone steps where they had perched. He reached up, slowly, and a young boy with tanned skin, wild brown hair, and the darkest eyes, wearing naught but a tattered brown robe, walked out from under his cloak. The boy looked up emptily to the two men before him, who placed their hands on his shoulders and slowly escorted the boy inside a large angled doorway.

As the large man turned and left, his heart grew heavy. He lowered his hood, revealing himself to be Abadi Khan, and looked back only once at the monastery with a lingering sadness in his dark eyes, "Donovan, my son, fare thee well…"


End file.
